


Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want

by surprisinglyOK



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Moving In Together, Moving Out, Panic Attacks, Pos is gay, Post-Canon, References to Depression, References to Suicide Attempt, Religion, Scripps is hella bi (but shh he doesn't know yet), Slow Build, Slow Burn, University, mental health, nervous breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-15 17:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12325785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surprisinglyOK/pseuds/surprisinglyOK
Summary: Scripps and Posner search for meaning in their life after sixth form, and end up finding each other.~Burning slow, from uni to beyond.Triggers for individual chapters will be specified in the notes, and each chapter is named after a song by The Smiths (with accompanying lyrics at the beginning).Happy to take constructive criticism.This is my first fic of any real length. Please be nice to me.





	1. Back To The Old House

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! So, Scripps finds Posner in a pretty desperate state in this first chapter as he visits him in hospital (it’ll get better, I promise), so it’s admittedly kind of bleak. Trigger warnings are for: mentions of depression and suicide attempt/drug overdose, with a short but slightly graphic description of the aftermath. There’s also a panic attack mention right at the beginning (with no panic attack actually occurring), as well as a hospital setting, if any of those things are likely to bother you.  
> Some brief notes:  
> I’ve put Scripps at St Johns College, paying absolutely no heed to whether that’s actually canon or not.  
> Carnations are an exam thing: you wear a white one pinned to your gown for the first exam, pink for the middle ones, and red for the final one – except for the lawyers at Magdalen, who wear a green carnation in memory of Oscar Wilde for their first year exams, for some unknown reason.  
> Also, most chapters will be a little longer than this one. I hope.

_I would rather not go back to the old house_

_I would rather not go back to the old house_

_There’s too many bad memories_

_Too many memories there_

*

When visiting hours begin, Scripps is still standing dumbly in the middle of the crowded and too-bright hospital supermarket, holding a bunch of flowers in each hand and trying very, very hard not to have a panic attack.

The fluorescent lights are too artificial, the buzzing of conversation too loud, the flip-flopping nervousness in his stomach too tumultuous, and he can’t decide between sunflowers and germini. Any colour of rose, Scripps feels, rather conveys an inappropriate sentiment, for obvious reasons; and the lilies, while beautiful, are far too dubious in their morbid symbolism for this particular occasion. Carnations, on the other hand, the likes of which can frequently be seen pinned to the gowns of stressed Oxford students rushing to exams whilst still hastily attempting to tie their bow ties and keep an iron grip on their mortarboards, are clearly not the flower to present one who had been driven through Oxford in an ambulance not a week prior after being found unconscious on his bedroom floor beside an empty bottle of pills.

 _Not helping._ Scripps focuses on his breathing again. _In, out. In, out. In, out._

Sunflowers. He’ll go with the sunflowers. They’re bright and yellow and smell like summer days and better things. Okay.

Scripps places the germini carefully back in their stand, and tries not to drop the bunch of sunflowers all over the floor while he fumbles around with his wallet.

Although making a valiant attempt to divert his mind from the topic, he can fairly easily pinpoint the reasons for his anxieties upon visiting Posner in hospital. Kicking open the door to find an old and dear friend in that kind of state has proven to be something of a haunting experience, and it’s not one that Scripps finds it easy to forget, whether he’s standing in the supermarket, or floating unguarded and vulnerable in the death-grip of sleep. If Scripps is entirely honest with himself, he’s terrified that Pos will look the same as he did that day, face disturbingly grey and red and blotchy, wet with sweat and vomit, his arm reaching out towards the bottle abandoned on the floor beside him.

_In, out. In, out._

Scripps pays for the sunflowers and leaves the supermarket, following the signs towards the general inpatient unit that Posner has been inhabiting since being moved from Oxford three days ago. The nurse on reception helps him find _Posner, David_ on the wall behind the desk, and points him towards room 6. After several days in the John Radcliffe intensive care unit, it had been agreed that he would be transferred to Northern General in order to be closer to his parents and ‘better able to adapt to the outside world within his home environment’ when he had made a full recovery both physically and mentally – or at least, that’s what Mrs Posner had explained in a clipped sort of voice down the phone to him during his train journey from Oxford to Sheffield earlier that day.

It’s ridiculous, really, that Scripps is the one scared to death to see his friend again, while it’s Pos who has been through the desperately harrowing ordeal of rapidly worsening clinical depression and a suicide attempt. _Ridiculous, stupid, selfish. Get a grip._

Scripps twists the stiff handle and pushes open the door to Posner’s room.

He’s pale and gaunt, his body looking smaller than it has ever seemed before, now that he’s lain, straight-backed, in a stark hospital bed surrounded by various bags of fluid and paraphernalia. The faint, metronomic bleeping of his heart-rate monitor punctuates the muffled noises of the hospital that mumble and mutter from behind the door. There’s an eerie atmosphere that hangs in the air for the long moment before Posner’s eyes crack open and find Scripps standing awkwardly, heart in his throat.

He blinks, focuses, and smiles with the weariness of the terminally exhausted, that mechanical grimace that oft seems to accompany the first attempt at a smile after an extended period.

‘Don’t just stand there, Scrippsy.’ His voice sounds raw somehow, rough. Scripps, not yet trusting himself to speak, to know what on earth to say, walks forward a little numbly, and sits nervously on the hard, plastic chair beside Posner’s bed.

His eyes are haunted somehow, darkly circled in contrast with his pale skin. He looks thin.

‘Hey, Pos.’

‘You brought flowers.’ Posner nods towards them, and Scripps stares at the bunch of sunflowers in his hand as if he’s forgotten he was holding them.

‘Yes. I thought it’s what you’re supposed to do.’ He shifts, uncomfortable. ‘How are you holding up? Or is that a stupid question?’

‘Well, since the hallucinations subsided it’s been a lot better, actually.’

‘Sarcastic as always, I see.’ Posner’s eyes sparkle with dark mischief, and there’s something of the boy Scripps used to know hidden away in the darkness.

‘Got to find _some_ manner of humour in these situations. I know I’ve always been a somewhat melodramatic soul, moping around and wanking on about unrequited love, but I appreciate jokes all the same.’

‘Have you heard the one about the Jew and the Christian in the hospital room?’

‘Now you’re getting it. What’s the punchline?’

‘Hopefully something about the Jew being discharged and going on to live a happy and fulfilling life?’

‘That doesn’t sound particularly funny.’

‘I’m doing my best. What’s it like in here, anyway? Do they treat you okay?’

‘Yes, it’s like a spa,’ Posner nods solemnly, until Scripps shoots him a withering look. He considers for a moment. ‘It’s alright. Truth be told, once it gets to this stage, it’s all a little… humiliating.’

‘Humiliating?’ Scripps frowns. It’s not a word he was expecting. Distressing, maybe; upsetting, draining. Pos attempts a shrug, which, in his state of lying-down with a drip in the crook of one elbow, only half works.

‘In all fairness to myself, I didn’t think I’d still be around for this bit.’

Scripps looks away, as if averting his eyes from his friend’s face will alleviate the weight of his brutal honesty, and exhales heavily.

‘I’ve been told I’ve got you to thank for my life, actually,’ Posner continues. ‘Can’t say I didn’t somewhat resent you for that fact when I first woke up, but anyhow. I suppose it’s for the best, in the end.’

Scripps’ eyebrows shoot up so high they almost reach his hairline. ‘Are you expecting me to _apologise_?’

‘No.’ Posner’s tone is oddly matter-of-fact, as though, if he stops to think for just a moment about the reality of the situation, he’ll break. ‘This is my roundabout way of expressing my gratitude.’

‘Anytime,’ Scripps mutters drily.

‘Seriously, though, Don. Thank you. I’m incredibly grateful for… for everything.’

Scripps ducks his head, a hint of embarrassment colouring his cheeks. It’s not as though he’d gleaned some sick gratification from playing the hero; he’d just wanted Posner safe. There’s a long pause while Scripps looks, really looks, at the pale boy in the bed for what seems like the first time, the air thick with sadness and things unsaid.

‘What happened, Pos?’ he murmurs. Posner grimaces.

‘I disappeared. At least, that’s what it felt like was happening. I fell through the cracks. Bit, by bit, by bit. And I became nothing.’

‘Why?’

Posner thinks for a moment. ‘I don’t know. The work, I suppose. The pressure. Feeling like I’d got to the finish line and then realising I had to keep going. And the… alienation. I’ve never felt…’ he trails off, his eyes pained by a sentiment he can’t quite express, but Scripps nods. He understands, he thinks, what Posner means. He had never quite fit in at school, never quite found his place, never quite been like everyone else. He’d been _different_ in a way that was difficult to describe: younger, smaller, quieter; effeminate in the kind of way that tended to inspire teasing; dastardly clever even by the standards of the other Oxbridge boys. He’d been a loose thread, a forgotten end that nobody ever remembered to tie up. Posner gazes up at him, brow furrowed, and in his eyes it’s like he has been lost all his life and will never be found, and Scripps feels his heart break. ‘I don’t remember not being sad, Don.’

Posner’s voice rings with such despair that Scripps can’t quite look at him. He is numbly, distantly aware that he is still gripping the flowers in his right fist, the plastic wrappings wet and warm against his palm. He should be better at this; he should have the strength to look his friend in the eye and tell him everything will be okay. He clears his throat, and then clears it again.

‘You’ll get help now,’ he tells him. ‘Everyone is looking out for you.’ Posner doesn’t react, eyes dull and trained on some unknown point beyond Scripps’ shoulder. There’s a soft silence, but it isn’t uncomfortable. ‘Are you going to go back, do you think?’

‘No. I don’t think it’s the best place for keeping me sane, do you? And there are too many memories there now.’

‘It’ll get better,’ Scripps promises, and he almost believes it. Posner raises his eyebrows disbelievingly.

‘Right.’

Scripps stands, brandishing the sunflowers like a sword. ‘Shall I put these in water for you?’

‘You’ll have to get a nurse,’ Posner shrugs, looking up at Scripps pointedly. ‘I’m not allowed to have scissors in here.’

Scripps takes a deep breath and nods curtly, something twisting in his stomach and making him feel slightly sick as the implications of the statement find their mark in his understanding. ‘Right. I’ll… be one moment, then.’

When he returns, it’s with the flowers neatly settled in a clear vase, plastic wrapping discarded and leaves stripped from the water level down. He grimaces embarrassedly at Posner as he re-enters the room.

‘She wouldn’t let me do it,’ he sets them down on the desk at the bottom of Posner’s bed. ‘Right mardy-arse, that one.’

Posner huffs out a laugh. ‘Ange? Yes, she rather likes to run her section like it’s a well-oiled machine. She’s not too keen on anyone taking initiative.’

‘Well, fuck me if I can’t dump a bunch of flowers in a plastic vase.’

‘Gosh, after that sentiment I’m rather glad she didn’t let you.’

Scripps grins at Posner, and Posner grins back. It’s almost, nearly, not-quite, normal.

‘I’m going back tomorrow,’ Scripps straightens his jacket, preparing to leave. ‘Er. To Oxford. For the last week of term. But I’ll come back in the morning to say goodbye.’

Posner smiles at that, his face suddenly so pleased and open and innocent that it makes Scripps’ heart ache. ‘I’d like that. But just so you know, the tariff for the second visit is _two_ bunches of flowers.’

Scripps scoffs. ‘Don’t push your luck. I’m not made of money. And come over for dinner when I’m home for the Easter vac. When you’re well again. Mum would love to see you.’

‘Thanks, Scrippsy,’ Pos offers another small but genuine smile. Scripps nods, turns, and steps out of the room.

*

When he returns early the next morning, as promised, Posner is fast asleep, his lashes casting grey-blue shadows on his cheeks as he breathes, soft, deep and regular.  Scripps sits and surveys him. He looks so young, it’s hard to believe that he’s the same age as Scripps; that he’s, legally, an adult now.  There’s a stray lock of hair in his fringe that sticks up straight, defiantly resisting flattening, but Scripps can’t quite work up the nerve to smooth it down.

He allows himself to sit for a moment, resting his backpack by his feet, and listening to the reassuringly steady beeping of the monitor, as the world seems to grind to a halt around him. It’s unfair that the universe should treat one as bright, as unique, as soft, as _good_ as Pos quite so violently. If there’s anyone in the world who deserves pain, it’s not him.

_What if you hadn’t found him?_

Scripps pushes the thought roughly away, takes a deep breath, and closes his mind to everything but his own breathing, matching the slow, regular pattern of the monitor.

 He sits, watches, waits.

After ten minutes, he stands, and hesitates a moment before digging a pen and his notebook from where they are tucked just inside the zip of his backpack. He scribbles a note, carefully rips out the page, and places it on the chair beside Posner’s slight, peaceful, sleeping frame. He swings the backpack onto one shoulder, and slips away like a ghost.

_Pos –_

_Came by but you were asleep. I’m probably on the train as you read this. Back to the old grind, as they say. If you’re looking for someone to read while you’re bored at home, I saw some Wilde out on the table in reception. I know you've studied him half to death but, God, just read_ Ernest _one more time. You’ll thank me - it's enough to make anyone laugh._

_Look after yourself, and keep me posted. I’ll be home next week._

_Best,_

_Scripps_


	2. Accept Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scripps catches up with the lads, and meets a girl in the library. He makes a habit of hanging out with Posner after his counselling sessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! This chapter isn’t as heavy as the last one, but it still involves mental health themes and references to depression, suicide attempt/drug overdose, hospital stays, and counselling, mostly in the first couple of paragraphs. There’s also some mild ableist language towards the end, some sex references, and some of Scripps’ internal monologue involves questioning his faith and certain biblical teachings – it's not meant to be offensive in any way, and is just the honest and mildly confused musings of someone struggling a little bit with his religion, but if that’s likely to upset you then this is your heads-up.  
> Here's some silly Oxford jargon for reference:  
> Vac = vacation  
> Lodge = porters' lodge, i.e. the entrance/reception to each college  
> The autumn, spring and summer terms at Oxford are known as, respectively, Michaelmas, Hilary, and Trinity.  
> Thanks for reading!

_Every day you must say_

_So, how do I feel about my life?_

_Anything is hard to find_

_When you will not open your eyes_

_When will you accept yourself?_

*

Before it was bad, it was good.

Pos had seemed to be settling in, making acquaintances and keeping up with his reading, speaking up in tutes and always finding the time to tag along to The Three Goats Heads with the lads every Friday night. It wasn’t until early Hilary that his presence had started dwindling, and Scripps had assumed that he’d found his own friends and lost interest in his school peers, or else was dedicating his time to studying in the library. By mid-Hilary, he had disappeared entirely. By seventh week, Scripps had lost the battle against the sick sense of foreboding that been curling and coiling in his stomach like a boa, and it had been pure paranoia that had driven him to Posner’s locked, silent door that Sunday afternoon.

He’d called the ambulance with clammy, shaking hands, and had gasped himself wretched on his knees for the fifteen minutes it had taken for the paramedics to arrive.

Scripps drums his fingers absently against his knee as his glazed eyes stare blankly at the academic journal in his lap, the words swimming into nothing while his brain floats a little way off, perhaps in the heavy clouds above the chattering train. It had been good to see Posner, even if he had still been exhausted and withdrawn, the cold fingers of his illness still pressed tightly to his temples even after the worst has passed. At least now he’s somewhere he can be helped.

Scripps tries to focus again on the words in front of him, willing himself to spend the last half-hour of the train journey being at least somewhat productive. Not that there’s any real urgency to his ambitions; his tutors had been understanding of his circumstances this week and had graciously offered to extend his next deadline to enable him to both visit his friend in hospital, and take some time to recover a little from his own trauma and anxiety. He can’t help wondering if Posner would have had the same response from his own tutors at Magdalen, had he been able to reach out to them to ask for help from the depths of his pit of despair: an extended deadline or two, or another couple of days to get his head sorted out and his reading underway. They were mere fractions of solutions that would have done little for someone already so desperate.

When the train pulls into the station, Scripps closes the journal with reluctant acceptance of the fact that he has failed to read more than a sentence for the entire duration of the journey.

The air is brisk when he steps onto the platform, the heavy, thick-set clouds that bulge threateningly with unshed rain having followed him all the way from Sheffield. He pulls his jacket closer, and sets off past the Business School towards St John’s.

*

‘Oi, Dakin, did you see the see the Spurs game yesterday?’ Lockwood trumpets over the tinny music and chattering in the cramped pub, punching a fist in the air to yell: _‘thrashed them!_ ’

‘How do you have the time to watch football?’ Dakin grumbles. ‘I’ve got three essays in for this week.’

Scripps takes a sip of his beer and sets it back down at the table he’s slouched over, uncharacteristically quiet even by his own low standards of social involvement. The incessant noise of The Three Goats Heads is slowly but determinedly nudging along his headache. It’s been a long day since he left Posner fast asleep in his hospital bed, and it was with very little enthusiasm that he’d dragged himself to the pub to meet the lads for their weekly Friday gathering as it was.

‘Three?’ Lockwood says cheerfully. ‘Sucks to be you, mate. Have another drink, it’ll help you forget.’ He grins as Dakin glowers darkly at him.

‘Hey, how’s Posner?’ Akthar asks suddenly from beside Scripps. ‘Didn’t you go up to Sheffield to see him?’

‘Yeah,’ Scripps sighs heavily. ‘He’s doing about as well as can be expected. Out of intensive care. Sleeping a lot. It’ll take time, I suppose.’

‘Sorry I didn’t come,’ Akthar pats him on the shoulder. ‘Busy with work and stuff. You know.’

Scripps makes a non-committal noise somewhere in the back of his throat, but if he struggles to hide his slight irritation that none of the other boys had deigned to take a day out of studying to visit their friend on the brink of death, they don’t seem to notice.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Dakin says with barely disguised impatience. ‘It’s just Pos, isn’t it? He’s always been a bit highly-strung.’

‘I think this goes a little bit beyond “highly-strung”,’ Scripps replies hotly. Lockwood shrugs.

‘Dakin’s right, though. He’ll be back to normal again soon enough.’

‘Hm,’ Scripps grunts, glaring into his pint glass.

‘Don’t be like that, Scrippsy,’ Dakin leans forward to ruffle his hair, and Scripps scowls in response. ‘What would you say if I told you there’s a new bar just opened on Park End Street?’

‘I’d probably tell you to sod off.’

‘Isn’t it your round, Akthar?’ Lockwood waves his empty pint glass accusingly.

‘Yeah, yeah. Although I’m sure you’ve skipped yourself somewhere down the line.’

Scripps silently drains his glass as Akthar makes his way over to the bar, wishing dully that he could just climb into bed and shut out the world.

By the time he finally gets his wish, he’s tired and tipsy, and falls into a heavy sleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

*

It’s too warm in the Bodleian the next day, now that spring is in full force and daffodils are scattered across the flowerbeds along Broad Street. Scripps undoes the top button of his shirt and tilts his head so he can read sideways, squinting through his glasses at the spines of the books. The one he needs doesn’t seem to be there.

‘Are you looking for Hodges and Whitehouse, by any chance?’ a voice asks from behind him. He turns to find a short, red-headed girl with green eyes and a pretty smile holding a book out towards him.

‘Er, yes, I am.’

‘Here.’ She waves it in front of him. There’s an Irish lilt to her voice that makes it sound like she’s singing. ‘I’ve just finished.’

‘Thanks,’ Scripps replies gruffly, accepting the book. She beams.

‘I’m afraid I took Janet Nelson, too. She’s next on the reading list.’

‘Ah. In that case I’ll have to come and hound you for that once I’ve finished this one.’

‘Sure! I’m right over there.’ She jerks her thumb towards one of the benches, where four – no, five – books are stacked up beside several loose sheets of paper. Scripps raises an eyebrow, amused.

‘Saving them up, are you?’ he teases. She ducks her head a little bashfully.

‘I like to have them all ready. It’s not very good manners, I suppose.’

‘You don’t happen to have Southern, too, do you?’

‘Of course I do,’ she grins. ‘I’m not reading them all at once, though. Obviously.’ She seems suddenly flustered. ‘So, I’ll be around if you want any of them. Or… you know. If you fancy a coffee or anything.’

She asks so quickly, so out of the blue, that it takes a second for Scripps to process the question. He blinks a couple of times, and feels his ears turn a little pink.

‘Er. I might take you up on that. Both of those things, in fact.’

She beams. ‘Okay! Well. Um. I’m Alice.’

‘Don.’

‘I’ll be over here, then?’ she asks it like a question, flashing him a final smile and ducking away a little awkwardly, heading back to her seat and leaving Scripps unsure what just happened. He rubs the back of his neck, chuckling softly in equal measures bewilderment and elation, and sits down at the closest desk, opening the book out in front of him.

It’s only on the train home a week later, when the end of Hilary has finally rolled around and Dakin is sitting across from him with his feet up on the table, that Scripps realises he never quite found the time to take Alice up on her offer.

‘Scripps, you great twat, she’s already got the ball rolling. For Christ’s sake, she’s asked you out already! All _you_ need to do is say yes!’

‘I just didn’t have time in the last week,’ Scripps shrugs. ‘I had an essay due.’ Dakin rolls his eyes dramatically, slumping back in his seat with a long-suffering sigh.

‘Scripps. There’s always time for a girl. Have I taught you nothing?’

‘I hope not.’

‘This isn’t a God thing, is it?’

Scripps wrinkles his nose. ‘What's that supposed to mean?’

‘You know. Not wanting to go out with her because of religion and all that.’ Dakin appraises him in his only-vaguely-interested-in-what-you-have-to-say manner while Scripps thinks for a moment.

‘No, not really. I mean, it’s probably time I at least tried _dating_ someone.’

‘If you ever get the chance now you’ve cocked it up.’

‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. I’m sure I’ll bump into her again. It’s no big deal.’

‘Tell me again it’s no big deal when you finally realise you’ve got chronic blue balls and no one to fondle them for you.’

Scripps stares at him in horror and disgust. ‘Jesus _Christ_ , Dakin. Do you have to?’

He shrugs as the train begins to slow and a muffled announcement sounds around the carriage. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Scripps closes his eyes in silent exasperation. Posner would never give him this much of a headache.

‘Got any gum?’ Lockwood pokes his head over the seat behind Dakin’s head, and Scripps retrieves a piece of Wrigley’s from his bag to throw at his face, making him yelp.

‘Parents ahoy!’ Akthar calls from beside Lockwood, and Scripps peers out of the window to see Sheffield Station rush into view.

His mother and father stand expectantly on the platform, each breaking into a matching beam when they spot Scripps emerging from the carriage, case in hand and bidding farewell to his friends. His mother flaps him an enthusiastic wave, and Scripps can’t help but grin back.

‘Welcome home, Don!’ his mum envelops him in a tight hug, holding onto him for dear life despite the fact that Scripps has only been away for a week.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Hello, lad,’ his father smiles gruffly and squeezes his shoulder, taking his case from him.

‘Now, I’ve made an apple cake for you, but I’m sure your brother must have eaten at least half of it by now, honestly, that boy…’

‘Don’t worry about it, Mum. I’m sure it’s fantastic as usual.’

‘It _was_ , you mean. ‘It’s not like we’ll ever get to find out now.’

Scripps catches his father’s eye and they share a conspiratorial grin in the knowledge that his mother is always the same. They make their way steadily towards the station exit, and Scripps is happy to be home.

*

On his first morning back in Sheffield, Scripps finds himself in his familiar old church, the dank, cool smell and the hard wood of the pews comforting in a way that little else quite is. He bows his head in silence, and thinks.

_Our Father, who art in Heaven,_

_Hallowed be thy Name,_

Is there really anything _wrong_ with dating? Would God be upset if there was another love in Scripps’ life? Maybe. Maybe not. It’s sex that he supposes is the clincher. But, when you’re in a relationship, perhaps even thinking of marriage in the future, surely that wouldn’t be held against you? What could be wrong with that?

_Thy kingdom come,_

_Thy will be done,_

_On earth as it is in Heaven._

Has he done his bit yet? He still hasn’t figured out the will and ways of God, that’s for sure, but maybe he never will; maybe that’s a life-long pursuit. He still has questions, confusions, issues with the concept of God and the teachings of the Bible. Should he still be dedicating his time to understanding and practising the Lord’s teachings, instead of sitting around wondering if he’s allowed to have sex yet? Does any of it make sense in any case? If God is omniscient and just, why does He let bad things happen to good people? Is Posner being punished, perhaps, for something so blameless as falling in love?

That’s an awful thing to think and, if that’s the reality of his God, Scripps isn’t sure he has _any_ hope of understanding Him at all.

_Give us this day our daily bread._

_And forgive us our trespasses,_

Would Pos want to go back to their respective houses after his appointment? Would he just want to say goodbye and spend time with his family? Or maybe to collect their bikes so they can go on a ride and race down the hill like they used to? Probably not. He’ll probably be exhausted after the session – Scripps’ mum says they’re supposed to be quite emotionally draining, and that he can understand. And he’s still physically weak after spending almost two weeks in bed, being constantly poked and prodded and then scrutinised twenty-four hours a day whilst on suicide watch.

_As we forgive those_

_Who trespass against us._

Would he be likely to try it again? Is that what the doctors thought? Is it routine to be put on suicide watch after a failed attempt, or was he in particular danger? Was that why they had been watching him? What if, next time, he’s successful? _Stop it. That doesn’t do any good to think about._

_And lead us not into temptation,_

_But deliver us from evil._

What would he think of Alice?

_For thine is the kingdom,_

_And the power, and the glory,_

He’s getting way ahead of himself here. He hasn’t even gone on a date with Alice yet. If he ever will. Should he? Maybe he shouldn’t. _Lead us not into temptation_ , indeed.

_For ever and ever._

_Amen._

Scripps presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and exhales a slow sigh as his brain whirs and clatters and chatters, like he’s sitting in a crowded restaurant that’s buzzing with conversation instead of in a near-empty church that echoes nothing but his own thoughts. By the time he pulls his hands from his eyes, there are blotches of colour patterning his vision and he feels a little nauseous. He stands, stretches a little, and makes his way into the fresh spring air outside, the slight chill awakening the senses that the mustiness of the church seem to have dulled.

Posner should be finished with counselling in just under half an hour, which will give Scripps just enough time to scale the hill towards the hospital and seek out the psych wing.

Scripps had called briefly the night before and offered to meet him after his appointment, the unspoken sentiment behind the offer clearly embarrassing Posner slightly. However, he had agreed, grateful and ever-so-slightly flustered, and had had to persuade Mr and Mrs Posner to let him alone for the time it would take in between his appointment and his arrival home, on the promise that Scripps would be there to accompany him.

He wonders what Pos likely talks about in the sessions: the feelings of loneliness and inadequacy that trail him daily, he suspects. Maybe he’d talk about his forlorn, unrequited crush on Dakin. Most definitely he’d discuss the crushing weight of sadness that had kept him locked in his room with the curtains drawn for a fortnight before he eventually lost the battle with his own mind. Perhaps he’d mention Scripps. But probably not.

Posner emerges from the sliding hospital doors looking pale and drained, but quietly grateful to see Scripps standing expectantly by the bike racks with his hands shoved roughly in his pockets.

‘Alright,’ Scripps greets him, and Posner offers him a small smile.

‘Alright.’

‘Where are we headed, then?’

‘I don’t know. Back to mine, maybe. I’m exhausted.’

‘Sure.’ Scripps nods, and gestures for Posner to take the lead, falling into a steady step beside him when he starts walking. ‘Do you, er. Want to talk about it?’

Pos flashes a tired but wryly amused grimace. ‘Not right now, thanks. But I would _kill_ for some crappy daytime telly.’

‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ Scripps grins. ‘Crisps and trashy quiz shows?’

‘ _God_. I love it when you talk dirty.’

*

It becomes a habit, slowly but surely, to meet Posner after his hospital appointments and curl up on the sofa in front of the TV at one of their respective houses, or to gratefully accept a cup of tea in the garden with Mrs Posner. Sometimes Scripps brings the book he’s reading, and they talk about it; sometimes he arrives on his bike, and pushes it home along the pavement on his right side, while Posner walks in companionable silence on his left. As Pos steadily regains his physical strength and the sharp glint of humour in his eye that Scripps has grown to miss, he begins to cycle again, too, which makes it easier for him to pop over to the Scripps’ house to play with the dog and ‘help’ his friend study for collections, by perching on the edge of his desk reading poetry while Scripps scribbles away at his revision notes.

It’s a surprisingly warm day for mid-April the first time Scripps arrives at the hospital on his rusty old bike to find his friend’s already chained up outside: an evident breakthrough with his anxiously hovering mother if he’s been permitted to cycle to the hospital himself. He soon emerges from the bowels of the hospital, smiling a little more brightly than even last week.

‘It’s a nice day. Thought you might want to go for a ride. Race down Hector’s Hill, for old times’ sake.’

‘How could I ever say no to that?’

They mount their bikes, take the busy road back towards the centre of the city, and reach the top of what they have Christened ‘Hector’s Hill’, since the accident, in surprisingly little time.

‘Go!’ Posner yells, and Scripps starts to peddle, air whipping past him as he gains momentum. Despite going a little slower than he used to, for Posner’s sake, he still wins.

‘Not bad for an invalid.’ Scripps rests his bike down against the grassy verge at the bottom of the hill and sits beside it while Posner dismounts his own.

‘Please. I prefer the term “basket case”. It has a more euphemistic feel, don’t you think?’

Scripps grins as Posner sits down beside him with a thump. ‘Euphemisms. They used to be Dakin’s favourite.’

‘God, don’t remind me.’ Posner lies back on the grass, staring up at the sky above them, and Scripps follows suit, clasping his hands atop his stomach and heaving a comfortable sigh.

‘That ship has sailed, then, has it? It was just a phase?’

‘Well. The Dakin part was, at least.’

A comfortable peace settles around them as Scripps makes a vague, low hum of acceptance and closes his eyes. He can’t say he’s too surprised. He senses rather than sees Posner’s head turn towards him, and he cracks open an eye again.

‘I’ve had sex, you know,’ Posner says matter-of-factly. ‘With a man, I mean.’

‘You haven’t!’ Scripps’ eyebrows shoot up, and he can’t help feeling vaguely affronted that he’d said nothing about it at the time. Not that they’d been spending much time together, he supposed. ‘Well, come on, then, tell me more!’

He shrugs. ‘The whole business is rather… _messier_ than people tend to let on. I mean that in the figurative sense, of course.’ A mischievous glint passes through his eyes. ‘Although…’

‘Jesus, Pos. at least _try_ to make it sound romantic.’

‘It wasn’t.’

‘Well, was it… you know.’

‘Good?’ Amusement dances in Posner’s eyes and Scripps refuses to meet them, giving an awkward sort of confirmatory cough. Pos thinks for a moment. ‘I suppose. Doesn’t quite merit the song and dance that’s always made about it, though.’ He becomes contemplative in tone. ‘All those poems, and stories, and songs. I thought it would be more… special.’

‘Maybe it’s the person you’re with,’ Scripps suggests. Posner snorts.

‘God. Aren’t you soft.’

The two boys lie side-by-side in companionable silence, gazing up at the sky as if the world has stopped turning around them, and it’s easy to forget that it hasn’t.

‘I miss this,’ Posner murmurs.

‘You don’t have to miss it. We’re doing it right now.’

‘You know what I mean.’ He turns to face Scripps again. ‘D’you think things will ever be the same again?’

Scripps considers for a moment. ‘I shouldn’t think so. But life wouldn’t half be boring if they were.’

‘Ever the optimist, Scrippsy.’

Scripps exhales a deep breath and sits up, hair ruffled and shirt sleeves stained grass-green. ‘Come on. Let’s go back to mine.’ He heaves himself to standing, and Posner holds out his arms towards him, which Scripps obligingly grasps, pulling his friend to his feet.

‘ _“I would not a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass in summer, and when winter came on sheltering myself by the warm close-thatched rick, or under the penthouse of a great barn, provided I had love in my heart.”_ ’

‘And yet,’ Scripps counters as he mounts his bike, ‘love does nothing for the digestive system. Mum’s made carrot cake.’

‘Ah. Carrot cake, even Wilde can't argue with.’


	3. There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scripps takes Alice on a date, and romance blossoms. Otherwise known as: 'Scripps meets his Designated OFC™'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only real warning here is that this chapter is kinda heterosexual. So, uh, proceed at your own risk, I guess? There’s no Posner in this one, unfortunately, but this chapter needed to happen for plot reasons – he’ll be back in chapter 4 (and this is the only one he’s not around for). Sorryyyy!  
> A couple of notes: the ‘Sir, you are no gentleman’ quote is from Gone With The Wind. Also, if you’d like to imagine Scripps in his Oxford attire (known as ‘sub fusc’), the outfit is a white shirt with a black or white tie/bow tie/ribbon, black trousers/skirt and shoes, a mortarboard which is CARRIED AND NOT WORN, and a slightly ridiculous black gown. I headcanon Scripps with a black bow tie like a concern pianist. I feel like it would suit him? No one asked, but there you are.

_Take me out tonight_

_Where there’s music and there’s people_

_And they’re young and alive_

_Driving in your car_

*

When a familiar face and shock of red hair catch Scripps’ eye in the library for the first time since the previous term, he’s determined not to let it pass him by this time.

‘Hey,’ he blurts out, too fast, and quickly sticks his hands in his pockets in an attempt to look less uncomfortable. She looks up from her desk, and smiles.

‘Hi.’

‘Um.’ Scripps clears his throat. ‘I never took you up on that coffee, did I? Completely my fault.’

‘Oh!’ she ducks her head, embarrassed. ‘That’s okay. It was a bit forward of me, I’m sorry.’

‘No, no, not at all,’ Scripps scratches the back of his head. ‘Actually, I was going to ask if you’re free tonight?’

She beams. ‘Yes! Yes, I’m free tonight!’

‘Great. Well.’ Scripps realises a little late that he hasn’t quite planned this far in advance. ‘Drink? At… eight? Is that the time you’re supposed to go out for a drink?’

‘I have no idea, actually. Eight is good.’

‘Great. Okay. I’ll meet you…?’

‘I’m at Merton,’ she supplies helpfully, and Scripps is instantly grateful to her for putting an end to his awkward floundering.

‘The Merton Lodge, then?’

‘Sure. Cool.’ She smiles, and Scripps smiles back.

‘Cool.’

*

When he finds her waiting in the Lodge for him at eight, it’s with her hands stuck nervously in the pockets of her coat. She’s wearing a lick of red lipstick that clashes horribly with her hair. Scripps thinks it might be his favourite thing about her.

‘Hi,’ she smiles.

‘Hey.’ Scripps’ mouth feels a little dry. ‘You look beautiful.’

‘Thanks.’ She smiles bashfully, and her eyes sparkle with excitement. ‘So, where are we going?’

‘Have you ever been to Quod?’

‘Ooh, no. I’ve heard good things, though!’

‘I’m told they do an incredible Bloody Mary.’

‘Goodness,’ she raises a teasing eyebrow. ‘Is it where you take all the girls?’

Scripps grins. ‘I’m afraid if it’s some kind of Lothario you’re looking for, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.’

‘Oh, not at all. That’s the first box ticked off, in fact.’

‘Am I being scored, now?’ he laughs.

‘Just an independent review to keep you on your toes.’

They reach the restaurant and head for the high stools at the bar, Scripps taking Alice’s coat and draping it over the empty seat beside him. She orders a rum and Coke, and he a glass of red wine.

‘Not a wine-drinker, then?’ he asks.

‘Nah. It makes me loopy. _So_ ,’ she leans an elbow on the table, her face alight with mischief, and it reminds Scripps vaguely of Posner, ‘Byzantine or Ottoman?’

‘Oh, God,’ Scripps groans, laughing. ‘Let’s _not_ talk about History right now.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asks with mock indignance. ‘That’s my most important question!’

‘How many questions do you have, then? Am I about to be interrogated?’

‘Why?’ she shoots him a coy smile. ‘Are you nervous?’

‘Well, I haven’t exactly been on many dates before,’ Scripps admits. ‘Or, you know. Any.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. I’ve been a bit of a religious nut until recently, to tell the truth.’

‘Oh, cool!’ She seems intrigued rather than put off, to Scripps’ great relief, before she frowns suddenly. ‘Please tell me you’re not Catholic.’

‘No, no.’

‘Oh, thank God. My whole family’s Protestant,’ she explains. ‘Not a lot of love between the two in Ireland, obviously.’

‘Ah, of course. What area are you from?’

‘Belfast, boringly. You?’

‘Sheffield.’

‘Thought it must be somewhere around there,’ she smiles. ‘So, what do you do in your spare time?’

‘Erm,’ Scripps has to think a moment; it’s not as if he gets a huge amount of spare time these days. His mind flashes back to lying on the grass at the bottom of Hector’s Hill with Posner, staring up at the sky in peaceful silence while their bikes lie side-by-side. ‘I read a lot. Play the piano, too.’

‘Are you any good?’

‘I try to be. Do you play any instruments?’

‘I used to play the violin, but not in several years now. Maybe we could duet.’

It’s a good few hours before the night seems to reach its natural conclusion, Alice glancing at her watch and exclaiming in surprise how late it is and how fast the time has flown. Scripps can’t help but agree with the sentiment.

‘Shall I walk you home?’ he asks as they shrug on their respective coats to do battle with the late-April chill. She grins cheekily.

‘Next time, maybe.’

‘There’ll be a next time, then?’

‘If you want there to be.’

‘Yes. I would.’

*

‘Oh, Scrippsy, you devil! A lady at last!’ Lockwood tips back his head and touches the back of his hand to his forehead in a dramatic swoon. Scripps rolls his eyes.

‘It was just one date.’

‘Yeah, yeah, and the rest,’ Dakin interjects.

‘I’m serious. We just had a couple of drinks.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Lockwood places a solemn hand on his chest, ‘your secret is safe with me.’

‘“Sir, you are no gentleman!”’ Dakin instantly responds with the next line in a plummy voice.

‘“And you, Miss, are no lady.”’

‘Oh, pipe down, both of you,’ Scripps grumbles. ‘I should have just kept my mouth shut.’

‘And not shared the dirty details? Lockwood scoffs. ‘You wouldn’t do that to us.’

‘Where’s Akthar? He’d fight my corner.’

‘Working,’ Dakin shrugs. ‘Prelims.’

‘Ugh. He’s probably got the right idea, honestly. The time just seems to be running away from me these days.’

‘I bet I know where it’s going!’ Dakin flashes him a smug grin, and Lockwood throws his head back and hollers. Scripps sighs, and makes the final decision not to mention that he’s meeting Alice for their second date imminently.

‘Right,’ he drains the rest of his beer and stands to leave, ‘I’m off. See you little shits around.’

‘Aww, don’t go Scrippsy!’ Lockwood moans. ‘Where are you going that’s more important than this?’

‘Some of us have lives outside the pub.’ Scripps pats both boys on the back and grins. ‘Happy drinking, kids.’

He steps out into the mild breeze outside the pub, the air warmer than the week before, and he has left his coat hanging on the door in his room in favour of a lighter jacket. It’s only a minute’s walk to the theatre from The Three Goats Heads and, this time, he finds himself the first to arrive.

He stands still for a moment on the pavement outside, and breathes in the smell of Italian food, letting his head fill with the sounds of the Friday night laughter and chatter of students and townsfolk alike on George Street as they amble to and from the bars and restaurants, with parents, children, friends, partners. The city is peaceful in its noisiness, and Scripps lets his eyes fall closed.

‘Hiya!’ Alice’s voice revives him from his daydream, and he opens his eyes to see her wide smile and bright eyes. ‘Shall we go in?’

‘Ladies first,’ Scripps offers her his elbow and she laughs as she takes it. Her skin is warm through their twin layers of fabric, and it travels to a comfortable resting space somewhere in Scripps’ stomach.

They check their jackets and find their seats, after minimal faffing and confusion when Scripps realises he’s left the tickets in his jacket pocket, and the audience settles. At some point in the second act, Scripps puts his arm around Alice, and she doesn’t move away.

‘So,’ she asks him when they step outside into the night air, cooler than it had been a few hours prior, ‘are you going to walk me home this time?’

When they reach Alice’s staircase, they clatter up the wooden steps together, and Alice stops in front of her door.

‘This is me,’ she smiles. Scripps feels nervous all of a sudden.

‘Thank you for tonight. I had a really nice time.’

‘Me too. It wasn’t half bad for a student play that had to use four understudies.’

‘A glowing review. They should put that in the programme,’ Scripps grins. There’s a long, breathless moment, and Scripps is sure she must be able to hear his heart hammering in his chest. She steps forward.

‘I really like you, Don,’ she murmurs. Scripps’ breath hitches as she comes closer, and tentatively lets a hand fall to rest on her hip.

‘I like you too.’

Alice closes the gap between them, standing up on her tiptoes to reach Scripps’ mouth, and he melts into her. Her lips are soft and warm, and Scripps thinks his heart might have stopped entirely. A heady sort of heat travels all the way down to his toes.

It’s all too soon when she pulls away, but the soft, contented expression on her face makes it worth it.

‘Well,’ she whispers. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

*

On the morning of his first exam, Scripps is the first to admit that he’s a bit of a mess.

He marches down High Street towards Examination Schools, mortarboard clutched in an iron-like death-grip in his fist, and tries to swallow down the rising nausea in his stomach that has been accompanying the majority of his Byzantine Empire revision in the past couple of weeks.

_In, out. In, out. In, out._

The entrance to Exam Schools is crammed with babbling students in their penguin suits, a sea of black and white dotted with whites and pinks and reds. Scripps’ own white carnation is somewhat wilted and more than a little wonky, the product of an exasperated struggle with the pin ten minutes earlier. He spots Alice’s fiery flash of red hair before she has time to wave.

‘Don!’ she calls, weaving her way through the crowd. ‘Good luck!’

‘You too,’ he gives her a smile that he knows doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the knots in his stomach making him feel ill. ‘Do you know what room we’re in? _Fuck_.’ His carnation flutters to the ground like a dove, and he angrily retrieves it from the marble floor before it can be lost under the trampling feet.

‘South School. Come here.’ Alice takes the carnation and pin from his hands, and attaches them neatly to the breast of his gown. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she grins, and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. Scripps can’t help but smile. Looking in her eyes seems to help him breathe a little easier.

‘Okay. Let’s do it.’


	4. How Soon Is Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scripps comes home for summer, and Posner moves out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posner is back! Thank you for being patient. Some trigger warnings here: there are a couple of references to depression/mental health stuff, but it’s all very mild and only in passing. There’s also mild homophobic language used in jest, and some sex references, but that’s it by way of warnings.  
> A quick explanatory note: Merton is considered the stereotypically boring, all-work-and-no-play College.

_I am the son and the heir_

_Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar_

_I am the son and heir_

_Of nothing in particular_

*

It’s funny, Scripps thinks, how each train journey between Oxford and Sheffield feels just a little different from the last.

This time he’s speeding through the grimy, grey northern towns towards home, for example, it’s officially the end of first year, and prelims have come and gone: Scripps has donned all three colours of carnation, and been mercilessly sprayed with silly string and Cava by a handful of his friends outside Exam Schools, as is the traditional end-of-exams celebration. He can’t get the stubborn yellow powder paint out of his shirt, but he’s holding out hope that his mother might be able to help with that particular problem.

The boys lounging around him on the train are just a little more distant now that they’ve been apart for half the term, after their pub outings had unceremoniously ended with the realisation that they should probably be knuckling down and revising. They’d spent the first half of the journey dissecting the exam papers and debating what they should have written, much to Scripps’ irritation, and most of the rest of it making crude jokes about what Scripps would now term his budding relationship.

He and Alice had been dating for several weeks now, and Scripps is pleasantly surprised by his luck. She’s strong-willed and sparklingly bright, with a fast wit that she challenges him to match. She’s funny. She’s ambitious. She’s strikingly beautiful, and her laugh makes him feel warm inside. She collected toy elephants when she was a child. She can’t sing for shit.

Sex, Scripps is slightly disappointed to discover, isn’t the life-changing event he’d anticipated, but it’s nice all the same. He doesn’t feel like a new man, or like his world view has been altered, or like he’s suddenly older, wiser, more mature than he was before said act. It’s just rather pleasant to be close to someone. And it doesn’t feel like a sin, so hopefully it isn’t; although, perhaps if he’d been to church to mull it over in the past few weeks, he wouldn’t feel the strange sense of guilty unease that lingers somewhere in the back of his mind whenever he thinks about her like that.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time the train pulls up to the station, and Dakin ruffles his hair as he stands up to retrieve his suitcase from the luggage compartment.

‘See you around, Romeo.’

‘Bugger off.’

When he steps off the train, he’s surprised to find his mum standing on the platform in deep conversation with Posner.

‘Don!’ she beams as he approaches, and wraps her arms around his torso to squeeze him tight. ‘How have you been, love?’

‘Oof. I’m good, Mum. How are you?’

‘All the better for having you home.’ She allows him to extricate himself, but not before planting a kiss on his forehead. Scripps turns to the round, smiling face of Posner, and grins.

‘And what are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, mind.’

Posner wraps him into a hug, and he’s warm and solid and safe. He smells of aftershave and old books and, somewhere in the back of his mind, Scripps wonders if perhaps his friend lingers a little too long, but he isn’t sure.

Posner steps back to match his grin. ‘Your mum came into the bookshop. Said you were coming home today and that I should come along and keep her company.’

‘You daft sod. Dad at work, then?’

‘Yes, love,’ his mum replies. ‘He’ll be home soon. Come on then, get your behinds in gear. I’m parked just outside.’

Posner wordlessly picks up Scripps’ case by its top handle, leaving Scripps to take the other end to balance the weight, and the three of them trudge to the car.

Scripps’ mum manages to fill the fifteen minutes between the station and house with chatter, updating the boys on gossip from the girls at work and pausing to tut at the drivers she deems substandard.

‘So, how were…?’

‘Do _not_ ask me about the exams, please,’ Scripps groans. ‘I’ve had it up to the eyeballs with talking about them.’

‘Oh, give it up, you grouchy sod, and tell your mother how they went.’

‘They were _fine_.’

‘ _Honestly_ ,’ his mum catches Posner’s eye in the rear-view mirror and shakes her head in despair. ‘I don’t know how you put up with him.’

Posner grins. ‘It’s a daily struggle.’

‘Oi, you’re supposed to be on _my_ side!’

Once they’re back in the house, Scripps manages to calm down Lila by lying on the floor next to her and scratching her ears until she’s finished barking with excitement, while Posner makes himself and Scripps’ mum a cup of tea.

‘I’m starved,’ Scripps groans from the floor. Have we got any biscuits?’

‘In the tin, where they always are,’ his mother calls in a practiced voice, and Scripps gives the dog one last scratch before heaving himself off the floor to retrieve a handful of Hobnobs, offering the tin to a happily acquiescent Posner. Scripps jams one of the biscuits into his mouth in the interests of freeing up his hands enough that he can pick up his suitcase, and Posner again takes the other end and helps him lug it up the stairs.

‘D’you want help unpacking?’ he asks as Scripps closes his bedroom door behind them. Scripps groans.

‘Not yet.’ He lets out a sigh and sits on the edge of his bed, and Posner takes his preferred position on the floor, where he can stretch his legs out and lean back on his hands, and raises an eyebrow.

‘Stressful journey?’

‘Stressful term.’

‘I don’t doubt it. What have you been up to?’ Posner leans forwards as if straining to hear secrets being spilled. ‘I’m starved for gossip.’

Scripps laughs. ‘What makes you think there’s gossip? I have just done my prelims, you know. It’s not like there’s been a lot of time for anything else.’

‘Excuses, excuses,’ he sighs. ‘Congratulations for finishing, by the way.’

‘Thanks, Pos. What’s been going on in the real world while I’ve been away?’

‘The usual. Father’s trying to persuade me to go back to Oxford.’

‘Christ.’

‘Yeah.’ Posner shrugs. ‘He still thinks I’m going to be a lawyer or something, when I can’t even read an academic journal without breaking out into a sweat. Still, they’ve entrusted me with the window-dressing in the bookshop, so I suppose that’s _almost_ as good.’

‘That’s pretty cool,’ Scripps smiles. ‘Don’t tell my mum, though, or she’ll get you doing interior design in the living room.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind. So, come on, then, stop stalling. What have I been missing down in the City of Dreaming Spires?’

‘Well,’ Scripps rubs the back of his neck, suddenly nervous, though he has no idea why. ‘I, er. Seem to have found myself in a romance of sorts.’

‘A romance?’ Posner stares at him open-mouthed, and Scripps can’t help but feel a little offended. ‘Our Donald Scrips, _having a romance_?’

‘Alright, alright, you don’t have to make it sound quite so surprising.’

‘You haven’t had _sex_ with her, have you?’ he narrows his eyes questioningly. Scripps’ silence speaks volumes. Posner gasps. ‘ _No_. My God, Don, haven’t you changed!’

‘I’m not sure what’s quite so scandalous about it. It’s not as if you haven’t done it, too.’

‘Yes, well,’ Posner waves an airy hand in possibly the most ridiculous gesture Scripps has ever seen, and he has to restrain a fond smile, ‘I’m a deviant. And I’m depressed, so that gives me a get-out-of-jail-free card, I think.’

‘Is that how it works?’

‘Yes. Seriously, what changed? Next thing you’ll be telling me you’ve stopped going to church.’

‘Er. About that…’

‘ _Don!_ ’ Posner seems caught somewhere between raucous laughter and scandalised incredulity. Scripps shrugs, and lies back on his bed.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to give it up altogether.’

‘That’s a relief,’ Posner raises an eyebrow. ‘Then I’d have to take you to a doctor to find out what you’d done with my friend.’

‘Hilarious.’ Scripps yawns, and feels the bed dip a little as Posner comes to sit beside where he’s lying across the bed. ‘Her name’s Alice, since you asked. She’s at Merton.’

Posner pulls a face. ‘Bet she’s a right barrel of laughs.’

‘She is, actually,’ Scripps refuses to rise to the bait. ‘You’ll have to meet her at some point.’

‘Yes, you could do all the introductions in one go: these are my parents, and this is my useless dropout friend from secondary school.’

Scripps looks up at him, searching his face, but Posner is fiddling with his shirt cuff. ‘How are things, Pos?’

‘Alright,’ he shrugs. ‘Still standing and all that.’

‘Any better for being home, d’you think?’

‘A little,’ Posner replies mildly, leaning back against the wall. ‘Good days and bad days. I’ve been thinking about moving out, actually. Thought it might help to have some semblance of an independent adult life back, even if I’ve still got my parents checking up on me constantly.’

‘Oh?’

‘It couldn’t be too far away, obviously. I’ve been doing some flat-hunting for somewhere close by.’

‘That’s great, Pos,’ Scripps smiles, and he means it. ‘I hope it works out.’

‘Thank you.’ He ducks his head with a slightly embarrassed grimace, and there’s something in his expression that reminds him of Alice. He feels a surge of affection for Posner, together with an unsettling feeling of worry from somewhere too deep to fathom.

‘You know… you know you can talk to me, right? If things get bad.’

‘Oh, Scrippsy,’ Posner says in a high-pitched, quavering voice, a hand pressed dramatically over his heart, ‘I never knew you cared.’

‘Oh, shut up. You are pretty much my best and only friend at this point, you know. As much as you might joke, you do actually mean quite a lot to me.’

Posner rolls his eyes at him, but there’s a smile on his lips that he can’t quite hide. ‘Don’t be soft, Don.’

*

The warm days of summer trickle away like sand, slowly but steadily bringing forward the twilight of the holiday, and Scripps finds that he spends a lot of it with Posner. They share many a lazy afternoon, lying on the grass in the park whilst reading their respective books in comfortable silence, or cycling out to whatever obscure coffee shop Posner has discovered that week, or singing along to the radio in Mrs Posner’s living room until she asks them politely to quiet down. They wile away June and July with peaceful dozing in the sun, terrible jokes and half-hearted teasing, talking about the lives that maybe they’ll live one day: Scripps an established novelist who writes tucked away in a cottage in the countryside somewhere, and Posner an English teacher inspiring classfuls of students into love affairs with literature. Scripps is unconvinced that either fantasy is likely to occur, but it’s nice to think about it all the same.

Some evenings, Scripps calls Alice back in Belfast and tells her about what he’s read that day and how far he cycled through the city with Posner, the sun in their eyes and the breeze rushing through their hair. In return, she tells him stories from her work placement with a media company, and describes Belfast City Hall and how it looks when it’s lit up in swathes of colour at night. Scripps is happy just to listen to the sound of her voice.

He starts a month-long newspaper internship in Manchester come August, and commutes five days a week to the office to be taught how to seek out snippets of information to substantiate a scoop, how to grip a reader, and how to make the editor the perfect cup of tea.

By the time the month is over, Posner has put down a deposit on a tiny terraced house in one of the seedier parts of Sheffield, a twenty-minute walk away from his parents.

‘I didn’t half have to argue with them to let me live away from home,’ he shakes his head in exasperation as he leafs through the paperwork at the dining room table of his parents’ house, Scripps leaning over his shoulder trying to spot a picture, ‘but I swear to God I need _some_ independence or else I’m going to scream. Ah, there they are.’ He pulls out several sheets of paper, and places them on the table in front of Scripps. There’s a picture of a narrow building, squashed in line with the others on the grey street; there’s a small bedroom with just about enough room for a double bed, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers, if he’s lucky; there’s a rather more open-looking living room, and a little kitchen with an oven and a fridge and a sink that he’ll be able to call his own. Scripps can understand why it appeals so much when compared with the suffocation of his parents’ house that’s all too evident in the pained expression in his eyes. Scripps offers him a smile of genuine fondness, and feels a rush of something that might be pride.

‘It’s perfect, Pos. Your own place. No scouts, no waiting in line for the shower, no fire drills. You’re doing far better than me on the adulthood front.’

Posner snorts. ‘That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard.’

‘You need to start spending more time with Dakin. He’d beat that record in a nanosecond.’

When September rolls around, not long before term is due to start again, Alice comes to stay for a week in Sheffield. She nervously accepts a clap on the shoulder from Scripps’ dad, and beams with delight when his mother hugs her tightly and warmly, and welcomes her ‘into the fold’. On the first night, Scripps kisses her under the covers, and she melts into his arms.

When Posner moves into his new house, he invites Scripps over to see it.

‘Bring Alice, too,’ he instructs cheerfully down the phone, and Scripps does.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks her as they wander through Sharrow towards the address that Posner had passed on the night before. She gives him an anxious glance.

‘Just a little nervous. I want to make a good impression.’

‘Just quote some Housman and try not to talk too much about Oxford, and you’ll be fine.’

‘That’s… surprisingly unhelpful advice, Don,’ she replies drily. He raises an eyebrow at her.

‘I’ve never seen you this nervous. Not even before exams.’

‘History I can rely on. Things that haven’t happened yet, not so much.’ She twists her fingers agitatedly. ‘What if I say the wrong thing? Is there anything I should know about him beforehand? You told me about the breakdown, obviously, but I can’t imagine that would be a potential topic of conversation…’

‘Alice. Calm down.’

‘He’s Jewish, right? And his parents are still together? Does he have a girlfriend?’

‘He’s, er. He’s not that way inclined, actually.’

‘See?’ Alice throws her hands in the air. ‘That’s something I should know!’

‘Stop worrying,’ Don takes her hand in his with an exasperated smile, and tugs her gently to the right so they can make a turn onto Ecclesall Road. ‘Out of the two, you’re far more likely to take his head off.’

‘Wow. Aren’t you a charmer.’

‘Relax. I’ll be right here with you.’ He stops in front of the gate. ‘I think this is it.’

The house is battered and cramped and squashed into place, but it stands solid and proud behind the wooden door of chipping red paint.

‘Okay?’ Scripps squeezes Alice’s hand, and she exhales a deep breath.

‘Okay.’ She reaches forward to press the doorbell, and there’s a moment of anticipatory silence.

Posner greets them with excitement sparkling in his eyes, his pleasure at being able to show off his new home evident in his grin, child-like, contagious.

‘Scrippsy!’ he beams in delight and holds open the door so they can enter, and Scripps ruffles his hair fondly as he enters.

‘Alright, Pos?’

‘You must be Alice,’ Posner greets her politely, and entirely fails to hide his slightly stunned expression when she hugs him.

‘It’s so nice to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about you.’

‘All good, I hope?’

‘That might be pushing it,’ Scripps teases, and Pos elbows him. ‘Well, come on, then. Show us your humble abode.’

‘Alright, alright. Come in.’

He leads them through the narrow hall and through a door into the living room. It’s surprisingly bright inside, and there’s a small television set and sofa nestled neatly within the pale walls. It’s calming, almost; it’s peaceful. He grins at Posner, who has perched himself anxiously on the arm of the sofa.

‘It’s brilliant,’ Scripps looks around approvingly. ‘Honestly.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s so cool that you’ve got your own place, Posner,’ Alice sits on the sofa beside him and beams, and Posner looks self-consciously pleased.

‘Does your mum like it?’ Scripps asks, and Posner makes a face.

‘As much as can be expected. It’s not the house she has a problem with, it’s me living in it.’

‘We all need to fledge the nest at some point,’ Alice reasons. ‘They should be glad you can be independent.’

Posner appraises her mildly for a moment. ‘I like you.’

Scripps lets out a laugh. ‘Well, that was easy. Come on, let’s have a house tour. I want to see the upstairs.’

It’s a blessing, Scripps muses, that everything seems to be working out. He smiles at Posner, who smiles back, and he’s suddenly struck by how lucky he is to have his girlfriend and his best friend, the two people he cares about most, finally meet, and spend time together, and get along. Posner moves through the little house like he’s walking on air, and Alice follows with happiness bright in her eyes. For once, everything feels like it’s fallen into place.


	5. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes. Things change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all knew it wasn't going to last.  
> There's some allusion to mental health themes in this chapter, but that's all in terms of trigger warnings. Happy reading!

_You left your girlfriend on the platform_

_With this ragged notion that you’ll return_

_But she knows_

_That when he goes_

_He really goes_

*

As quickly as the summer passes, so arrives the next, and before he knows it Scripps has been flung full-force into third year and more work than he’s ever before encountered in his life. The looming threat of finals is an unavoidable, inescapable blot on the mere months that he has left at university, and suddenly every spare second of his time is spent methodically working through more reading than he has ever attempted, and trying to cram it all into his bursting skull at the same time as applying for every journalistic job he can find. It’s exhausting.

When he eventually, finally, lands a job with The Times in London, after taking a Saturday out of his packed revision schedule to attend the interview, he practically runs down the High Street to Merton, leaping up the stairs to Alice’s room two-at-a-time. She opens her door to him grinning with glee, lifting her off her feet and swinging her around as she laughs and shrieks at him to put her down, and the two of them share a bottle of cheap prosecco in bed.

The final few weeks at Oxford pass in a blur of hammering adrenaline as Scripps scrawls out essay after essay in the roasting underbelly of Exam Halls, followed by the heady haze of the sweet summer afternoons he can allow himself to spend lying on the grass in the quad when it’s all, finally, over. He goes for walks with Alice, and reads on the riverbank in Christ Church Meadow, and weaves through the stalls selling flowers and ice creams in the Covered Market. He challenges himself to find knick-knacks that remind him of Alice and ones that remind him of Posner and, to his surprise and amusement, finds far more of the latter.

This time, when he takes his final train home from Oxford, it’s different, because he’s not staying.

He makes sure to visit the bookshop within his first few days at home, cycling down the back alleys through the English summer drizzle to the other side of the city until he reaches the glass windows and tatty, green overhang. The windows have been decorated with dozens of paper seagulls hanging airborne, as well as books resting upon artfully arranged pebbles, and Scripps is glad to know that Posner is letting his creativity run free.

Seeing his skinny form crouching in front of one of the bookcases, face scrunched up in concentration as he rearranges the books carefully one-by-one, makes Scripps smile from the inside out and his stomach pool with a fond warmth. He enters the shop and walks up behind him as casually as he can, pointedly clearing his throat. Posner startles.

‘You got any Victor Hugo in?’ Scripps asks. ‘I’ve suddenly got a lot of time on my hands, see.’

Posner’s face breaks into a bright smile when he turns his head to see the familiar face behind him. He looks a little tired. ‘Scripps!’ he stands up and gives him a light shove on the shoulder. ‘I didn’t know you were back yet! Ugh, you’re all wet.’

‘Didn't fancy meeting me at the station, then?’ he grins. ‘I’m hurt.’

‘I’m sure you’ll live. All done, then, finally?’

‘All done. It’s all gone so fast.’

‘Time moves slower at home, trust me.’

Scripps scolds himself internally for his tactlessness. ‘Er. Yes. How are things?’

‘Sensational. We just got a new delivery in, and I’m practically bouncing off the walls with excitement.’

Scripps rolls his eyes. ‘I was only asking, you cheeky git. Got time for a coffee?’

Posner surveys the shelves behind him and frowns in contemplation. ‘I can probably spare five minutes if you can provide some stimulating conversation in return?’

‘Deal.’

Scripps follows Posner into the familiarly cramped back room, where the books are stacked high and the smell of old paper fills his nostrils; a coffee machine and some hard, wooden chairs stand in the corner, and Posner makes a beeline for them.

‘God,’ he sighs as he sits heavily on one of the chairs and leans his head back, ‘I’ve been on my feet all day.’ Scripps dutifully presses the button on the machine for a coffee with milk, before one without milk for himself.

‘Here you are,’ he hands the former to Posner, who smiles in thanks as he takes it from him, and sits in the other chair.

‘How was term?’ Posner asks.

‘Hell,’ Scripps replies honestly, ‘but brilliant once exams were over. Beautiful weather, no more work, and I got to spend some time with Alice again.’

‘Oh,’ Posner takes a sip of his coffee, and Scripps isn’t sure if he imagines a hint of sourness somewhere in his voice, ‘that’s good.’

‘I’ve, er, got a new job by the way.’

He seems more interested at that. ‘Oh? What’s that, then?’

‘It’s with The Times, in their London office. Probably not doing a lot at first, but I’m hoping to work my way up.’

‘That’s great, Don,’ Posner smiles, this time genuine. ‘Honestly, that’s brilliant. When do you start?’

‘I’ve got a couple of weeks, and then I’ll be off. Ready to paint the town red.’

‘You? Does the party stop on a Sunday, then?’

‘Shut up, Pos.’

Posner grins at him, and Scripps grins back.

‘Come back and visit, won’t you?’ Posner nudges Scripps’ calf with his foot. ‘It’ll be lonely not having you around for weeks at a time during vacs.’

‘Of course I will, you idiot,’ Scripps rolls his eyes. ‘I’ve got parents here, remember. I’m not just going to take off and never see you again.’

‘You’ll have to invite me over to see your new place, like I invited you.’

‘You can come and stay whenever you want, Pos. It’ll be nice to have some company once in a while.’

Posner seems pleased at that, ducking his head a little in grateful embarrassment.

‘I’ll make you regret saying that. You won’t be able to get rid of me.’

‘I’ll just bring Alice round for a sleepover if that happens.’

Posner shudders. ‘Changed my mind. I’m not coming at all.’

‘How’s the house, by the way?’ Scripps takes a swig of his bitter coffee. It’s as awful as he remembers, and he makes a face. ‘Still enjoying living alone?’

‘It’s better than the alternative,’ Posner mutters.

‘Not a resounding “yes”, then,’ Scripps raises an eyebrow. Posner gives a half-hearted shrug and doesn’t reply. Something about him is darker than before, like his shine has dulled since the last time Scripps saw him; he looks drawn.

‘You alright?’ Scripps frowns.

‘Of course I am.’

‘You just seem… tired.’

‘It’s been busy,’ he shrugs mildly. ‘I _am_ tired.’

Scripps narrows his eyes, unconvinced, but lets it drop. ‘Alright.’

‘Come on,’ Posner drains his coffee and stands up. ‘Out with you. I need to get back to work.’

‘They should have you running this place by now,’ Scripps follows suit, flicking the empty polystyrene cup into the bin. Posner scoffs as he holds open the door for Scripps to slip out and onto the shop floor.

‘Me? In charge of real human beings? They wouldn’t know what had hit them. Go on, piss off. I’ve got work to do.’

‘See you,’ Scripps grins, turning on his heel and leaving Posner shaking his head as he turns back to survey the bookcases, his face still pale and drawn.

Scripps is unsurprised to discover that spending the entirety of his bike ride home analysing every one of Posner’s actions and facial expressions during those five minutes does little to alleviate his worries.

‘Is that you, Don?’ his mother shouts from the kitchen when he’s let himself in through the front door.

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Alice called. Said she wanted to speak to you.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’ Scripps unlaces his shoes and kicks them off before wandering into the dining room to find the phone.

He dials Alice’s house, and it’s her mum who answers.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Mrs Clarke, it’s Don.’

‘She’s just upstairs. One sec.’

There’s a moment of muffled noise, and then Alice’s voice, and Scripps smiles.

‘Hiya, Don!’

‘Hey. How are you?’

‘Great, thanks. What have you been up to?’

‘I’ve just been to see Pos at the bookshop.’

‘Oh, lovely! Is he well?’

‘He’s…’ Scripps hesitates for a moment. ‘He’s managing.’

‘Hmm,’ the frown is audible in Alice’s voice, ‘that sounds unconvincing.’

‘He’ll be okay, I think. I hope.’

‘Okay. I was just calling to say, I’m staying with friends in Manchester next week, and I was wondering if you wanted to meet up since I’ll be nearby?’

‘Sure, that’d be great. Which day?’

‘I was thinking Tuesday? Maybe Doncaster, if you fancied it, and then I could just fly home from Robin Hood rather than going back to Manchester. Or I could just come to Sheffield and get the train if that’s easier for you?’

‘No, no, I can meet you in Doncaster,’ Scripps nods to himself, a feeling of unease nagging at his attention somewhere in the back of his head. Her voice sounds a little distant. ‘You’ll have travelled enough.’

‘Great. Thank you.’

‘Erm. Is everything okay?’

‘Fine,’ she assures him. ‘I’ll see you soon. I love you.’

She hangs up before Scripps can reply, and he’s left staring at the phone in his hand like it’s personally offended him. It’s as if, somehow, somewhere in the back of his mind, he already knows this is the end.

When she trundles up outside the café in Doncaster on Tuesday, bright orange suitcase in tow, she kisses him like usual, and Scripps kisses her back as if it’s the very last time, because he has a strong suspicion that it might be.

‘How’s Posner?’ she asks after they’ve ordered their coffees and settled side-by-side on a low, under-stuffed sofa. ‘How are your parents?’

‘Parents are good. Posner I haven’t seen since last week, actually. Been busy with moving.’

Alice beams. ‘Are you excited?’

‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ Scripps laughs. ‘Nervous.’

‘You’ll be amazing. You always are.’

‘Alice…’ Scripps says gently, until she meets his eye. ‘Why do I get the feeling there's something you want to say?’

She smiles gingerly, a wistful sadness bright in her eyes. ‘Because there is. I’ve… applied for a job in the States. It’s another media company, like the one I did a placement with a couple of summers ago. And, well. They’ve offered it to me.’

‘That’s fantastic, Alice,’ Scripps tells her, and he means it. She bows her head.

‘I think, maybe… we’re better off just calling it quits. I mean, we’ll be so far away from each other…’

‘I agree.’

Alice looks up. ‘You do?’

Scripps nods and, although there’s a heaviness that’s settled in his chest, it’s not quite the pain he would have expected to accompany a broken heart. ‘We’re about to start our lives. New jobs, new cities, new _countries_. Everything’s changing. We have to change, too.’

‘We had a good run,’ she smiles, and swallows. He threads his fingers through hers.

‘The best.’

After he's kissed her cheek and they’ve wished each other luck and love on their respective journeys, Scripps watches her taxi to the airport drive away with a hollow sadness in his chest, and an unshakeable feeling that they've done the right thing.


	6. Half A Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scripps moves to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! No real warnings for this chapter other than a brief sex reference and a general sense of foreboding and ennui, which sounds like most days for me, honestly.

_And if you have five seconds to spare_

_Then I’ll tell you the story of my life_

_Sixteen, clumsy and shy_

_I went to London and I_

_I booked myself in at the why WCA_

*

On the day of the move, Scripps’ father takes some time off work to drive him down to London, car stuffed fit to bursting with books and shirts and mismatched belongings, a pot plant or two nestled amongst the folds of duvet and bin liner and the memory of his mum’s tearful farewell.

‘Better I drive you than pay for a removal van,’ he had reasoned, before advising his son in a low voice to ‘get your feet off the table before your mother catches you.’

The journey isn’t an awful one, but it’s long enough that Scripps’ brain has the time to generate a dull headache and too many of the thoughts that he’s trying to avoid. It gives him a strange feeling of loss to know that he can’t call Alice every few days for a chat, to tell her about his day and listen to her chatter happily about her family and friends. He misses her voice and her warm hand in his, and the sense of comfortable ease that it gave him. He’ll live, he knows, but the last week of adjusting back to life without her has brought an aimless, lost sort of ache which, when combined with the anxiety of moving almost two hundred miles away from home, has given him far more ennui than he can ignore.

He isn’t sure how to feel. His stomach rolls with anticipation, the nervousness and dull sense of loss and change knotting in his chest, but there’s a hopefulness there, too, a sense of looking forwards in expectation of whatever unexpected thing might be on the horizon.

He opens his notebook and tries to keep his already terrible handwriting as neat as possible in in the moving car.

 _Endings,_ he jots down. _Conclusions. Finish. Close. Culmination._

Then: _Juxtapose; beginnings. Start. Dawn. Spring._

He hums for a moment, thinking.

_So dawns the spring of bright newness; so begins the end of blithe, untroubled youth._

It sounds a bit pretentious. He’ll come back to it, maybe.

_Missing: Alice. Smile. Hair. Voice. Skin. Hands._

He sighs and stares out of the window. The streets lined with buildings in the North of England all look like Lowry paintings in the dull, grey light, so he writes that down too.

_The Kingdom of the Matchstick Man._

It sounds shit. He crosses it out.

When they arrive, Scripps’ dad manages to pull in behind a row of dilapidated shops, above which his new flat is teetering. Scripps locates the key under the mat at the top of the concrete steps, and lets himself in to number four, which rests above a noisy Chinese takeaway.

The flat is poky but pleasingly bright, with large windows and a double bed pushed into the corner of the main room, out of the way of the sofa and lounge area. There’s a door off to the right, which Scripps assumes leads to the bathroom, and a breakfast bar at the back, behind which is a small kitchen area with the various promised appliances neatly wedged in around the edge. There doesn’t seem to be a kettle, which Scripps makes a mental note to fix quickly.

It had looked a little bigger in the pictures, but he doesn’t mind too much. For a poky but fully-furnished studio flat above a Chinese takeaway in Hackney, it isn’t half bad.

When he and his dad have finished lugging his cases and boxes up the steps and into the flat, his father looks around approvingly and plants himself on the sofa.

‘It’s alright, isn’t it? Quite nice for a young’un starting out.’

‘Yeah.’ Scripps heaves a heavy sigh and takes a seat beside his father. ‘Yeah, it’s alright.’

His dad looks at him kindly. ‘Bit overwhelmed?’

‘A bit.’

‘You’ll be fine, lad. We’ll come and visit.’

‘Thank you.’ Scripps smiles. ‘Thanks for everything, Dad.’

‘Anytime, Donald. You can always count on your old man. Make your mother proud, won’t you? And try to call when you can.’

If his father’s voice sounds a little gruff, Scripps doesn’t comment. ‘I will.’

‘Come on, then, you soft lad,’ his dad ruffles his hair fondly. ‘I’d best be off. The North is where my heart lies. Can’t even see a bloody kettle in here.’

Scripps grins. ‘No, I don’t think there is one.’

‘Southerners,’ he shakes his head despairingly. ‘ _Animals_.’

After hugging his dad goodbye and waving him off with a twinge in his chest, Scripps plods back up the concrete steps and closes the door to the flat – _his_ flat.

He gazes at his piled-up belongings scattered across the floor, and wrinkles his nose. _Nope._

He turns on the TV and sits back down on the sofa, flicking restlessly through inane chitchat until he gives up and leans back, sighing heavily.

He calls Posner.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh,’ Scripps is taken aback, not really expecting a reply on a Saturday, when the bookshop is at its busiest and Posner is usually working. ‘Er, it’s Don. Thought I’d call and leave you my new number and address and all that.’

‘Ah. One sec, I’ll get a pen.’ Posner faffs around for a moment finding something to write with and on, and dutifully takes down the information that Scripps relays down the line.

‘What’s it like, then?’ Posner asks ones he’s been given the details. ‘The flat?’

‘It’s small,’ Scripps admits, ‘and a little noisy. And it smells a bit like sweet and sour pork. But it’s alright, really.’

‘Well. Thank goodness you’ve still got your enthusiasm.’

‘I said it’s alright, didn’t I? It’s not a patch on your house.’

‘Good old-fashioned northern property values.’

‘You got a day off, then, have you?’ Scripps asks.

Posner gives an uncomprehending ‘Hmm?’ in response.

‘It’s Saturday. Didn’t think you’d pick up.’

‘Oh. Yes.’ Posner seems floored for a moment, and Scripps can’t help but frown. ‘I took a sick day. Not feeling my best.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Just a bit under the weather, is all,’ he replies. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

Scripps feels a knot tighten somewhere in his stomach, alarm bells ringing faintly. ‘Pos, are you…’ He’s startled by the sudden tone from the handset that signals another call coming through. ‘Shit. Mum’s calling. I’ve got to go.’

‘Okay. See you.’

Scripps fumbles to accept his mother’s call, but misses it by a split second. He sighs in annoyance and glares at the phone in his hand. Posner had never been one to take days off; he’d always worked hard whenever he’d been able. It would take a lot to make him call in sick. Although, come to think of it, he had sounded a little off.

He phones his mum again, and pushes it out of his mind.

Over the weekend, Scripps concentrates on unpacking and settling in to his new home. There’s a wardrobe that accommodates all of his shirts and trousers with room to spare, and a chest of drawers, fully useable apart from one jammy one without a handle, where his socks are laid comfortably. His pair of dying pot plants perch rather more happily on the sill of the large windows than they had done back home. There’s hot water, after only a few minutes of running the shower each time he needs to use it, and all the hobs seem to work.

He wanders about the area a little on the Saturday afternoon, searching for the nearest supermarket so he can stock up on food and buy a kettle. There’s a Tesco Express with six different varieties of rice, but a disappointing lack of kettles, so he finds a homeware shop instead.

Saturday night finds him falling asleep on the sofa in front of the TV, and waking up with a horrible crick in his neck the next morning. He makes himself some beans on toast and takes the Tube to the South Bank, changing at Stratford, for the dual purposes of figuring out how the Underground works in preparation for taking it to work and back, as well as to stroll along the Thames, hands in pockets, marvelling at the Houses of Parliament and the London Eye.

He’s home by five. It’s quiet.

Well, it’s quiet apart from the clattering and shouting from the takeaway beneath him, and the sounds of enthusiastic sex through the wall on the right.

On Monday, he finally, thankfully, starts work. The office is modern and buzzing, and fills his head with the jarring rings of telephones on desks, the colours bright with computer screens and Post-It notes on noticeboards.

The receptionist smiles at him as he approaches the desk.

‘Er, hi. It’s Donald Scripps. I’m supposed to be starting today.’

‘Ah, yes,’ she replies pleasantly, and ticks off his name on the pad of paper in front of her. She hands him a name badge, and tells him to sit down in one of the plush, red chairs in reception while she calls the editor.

Jittery with nerves, Scripps sits anxiously on the edge of his seat, and exhales deeply as he fiddles with the strap of his satchel cutting across his chest.

_Beginnings. Start. Dawn. Spring._

*

The next day, Scripps gets a large, flat envelope through the post, stiffened with cardboard and postmarked from Oxford. He tears it open with his heart hammering in his throat.

The thick, cream paper is stamped with the familiar University Coat of Arms, and very clearly displays the emblazoned words, ‘First Class Honours.’

Scripps reads it four times, and then once more for luck.

‘Oh, thank God,’ he breathes, to no one in particular, and flops down on the sofa in a happy haze of tired, buzzing relief.

He gives himself five minutes to lie there in silence, drunk and giddy on excitement, before he dials his parents’ number.

‘I got a First, Mum,’ he can’t help grinning down the phone, and has to hold it away from his ear while his mother shrieks with delight.

‘John! John, get down here!’ she yells from somewhere down the line. There’s a clatter and a few moments of silence while Scripps imagines footfalls coming down the stairs, and then his father’s voice.

‘Hello, son.’

‘My results just came through. I got a First!’

‘Oh, Don!’ he laughs with naked pride and wonder. ‘That’s my boy. Congratulations, lad!’

‘Thanks, Dad!’

‘John, pass him back! I want to talk to him.’ His mother’s muffled, agitated voice is audible in the background, and Scripps’ dad heaves a long-suffering sigh.

‘I’ll pass you back to your mother before she has a fit.’

‘You cheeky sod!’

Scripps grins. His parents’ relationship is the strongest he’s ever encountered, and he’s sure at least half of that is a result of their incessant teasing of each other.

‘Oh, Don, I always knew you could do it! A First from Oxford, and now a big-time journalist in the City! I’m so proud of you.’

‘Give over, Mum,’ he replies, a little embarrassed. ‘It’s not as if I’ve been allowed to do any writing yet.’

‘It’ll happen, love. How’s the office? Are you settling in?’

‘It seems to involve a lot of photocopying and making coffee so far. But, on the plus side, I’ve become an expert in pushing the buttons on the machines and asking who wants milk.’

‘Oh, love. You’ll be given more responsibility the longer you’re there and the harder you work. You’ll get your breakthrough!’

‘Thanks, Mum.’

When he’s clicked the phone down several minutes later, his hand hovers hesitantly over it. Would it be right to call Posner to let him know the good news? Would he be excited for him? Would he be pissed off if Scripps _didn’t_ phone him to let him know? Or would it sound like he was lording it over him, had achieved something that his friend had failed at?

After a moment, he decisively dials Posner’s number, but no one answers.


	7. Still Ill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posner isn't doing well, and Scripps goes back to Sheffield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little heavy. Warnings are for references to depression, breakdown, suicide/suicide attempt, anxiety and panic, with more set in a hospital and brief mention of a minor medical procedure. My children are sad.  
> 

_Am I still ill?_

_Oh, am I still ill?_

_Oh, does the body rule the mind_

_Or does the mind rule the body?_

_I don’t know_

*

Scripps falls into bed every night shattered to the core, and is scrabbling, sleep-hazed, with his alarm in the morning before he even knows he’d fallen asleep. He cooks cheap meals, and pops to the supermarket for milk, and sips coffee late into the evenings as he jots down the things that interest and inspire him in his journal.

It takes a good few weeks of exhausting work, researching and suggesting and filing and running around after his more experienced colleagues to help them with their articles, before he can persuade Rich the editor to let him write a piece of his own.

‘Five hundred words,’ he graciously bestows. ‘Let’s see what you can do.

‘Thank you, Sir.’

His grandiose scoop, as it turns out, his big break, is a brief report on the life of a Tory politician who had recently been found dead in a hotel room after committing suicide. It triggers an unsettling memory of Posner having almost succeeded at the same thing.

He calls Posner that night, the need to hear his voice thrumming in his veins in an inconvenient and oddly disconcerting manner. The phone rings out.

Had Scripps not received the same lack of response two weeks before, he might have shrugged it off, putting it down to his friend simply being busy at the bookshop. _Two weeks. Is that how long ago it was?_ There’s a prickling of unease under his skin that he can’t quite place, as he frowns at the phone in his hand.

Stomach roiling with anxiety, he calls Posner’s parents instead. His mother answers after the third ring.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Mrs Posner, it’s Don. I, er, can’t seem to get through to David.’

‘No,’ she replies, and her voice is distant, strange. ‘No, I should think you haven’t. I’m afraid he’s in hospital.’

Scripps’ heart drops into his stomach. ‘In… in hospital?’

‘He just needed some stitches. Put his hand through a mirror, apparently.’

‘What?’ Scripps is numb with stunned disbelief. _At least he didn’t try to kill himself again_ , a dry voice in the back of his head points out, and he pushes it firmly to one side.

‘He wasn’t… he wasn’t doing well. We took him to A&E last night, and they wanted to keep him in.’

‘Is he okay?’

‘As okay as he can be.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Scripps can barely find the breath to speak. ‘I should have checked up on him sooner. Time has just been getting away from me, and…‘

‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ she replies briskly, some of her usual sharpness returning. ‘It’s no one’s fault. Just… pop up and visit some time, maybe.’ She pauses. ‘Or send a card. I know you’re busy. He’d love to hear from you.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he promises.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t call, Don. You’re his best friend. It’s just been… you know.’

‘I understand.’

‘Take care of yourself.’

‘You too, Mrs Posner.’

After he puts the phone down, Scripps needs ten minutes to sit with his head between his knees, taking very, very deep breaths.

When the ringing in his ears has subsided and he’s relatively sure he can lift his head without being overwhelmed by nausea, he does so, and sits staring blankly at the black television screen in front of where he’s planted numbly on the sofa. He rubs his hands down his face.

There are a handful of tasks that he has been charged with to complete at the office tomorrow: his first real piece, his attempt at a breakthrough, to be ready and waiting on Rich’s desk by five, requiring research, writing and editing before the deadline; research on the value of the pound in relation to the dollar in the last twenty years for James’ piece in the business section, to be sent to be collated by two; a brief correction for Donna’s editorial; a stack of filing.

While the filing can be passed on to some other disgruntled lackey for the day if absolutely necessary, the politician piece is a rather different story. Scripps had been given responsibility for it after doing more than his fair share of boot-licking and arse-kissing, and it had been given to him on a strict trial basis. Backing out at this point could be the most damaging decision he has yet to make at this point in his career.

It’s surely not realistic for anyone to expect him to drop everything and run to the side of an old school friend at the drop of a hat. Posner will have his parents there for him, and will probably be discharged within a few days if his stitched-up hand and dubious mental health don’t point to any demonstrable suicidal intent, although Scripps is entirely guessing at that last point. And yet, the haunting memory of his face pale against the sheets of a hospital bed makes him feel sick to his stomach, the idea of him lying there exhausted and broken, while Scripps sits behind his desk doing menial tasks for a multi-million-pound big-shot newspaper company, filling him with such distaste that he isn’t sure that he could look himself in the eye if he did. The compulsion to be home weighs heavy in his chest, as if there wasn’t ever really another option.

He sighs heavily.

‘Fuck.’

*

He works until the birds are stirring and the first rays of sun glow between the buildings to get everything finished, sending off the required emails to James, Donna, and, finally, Rich, with his heart in his throat. For a five hundred-word article, it has taken a frankly unbelievable amount of time to do all the proper research, write and edit down the piece into something readable that Scripps is happy with. The speed with which one can churn them out is something that he imagines will improve with time. He hopes Rich doesn’t notice that the email is time-stamped at four in the morning.

_Dear Rich,_

_Please find attached the Tony Harper piece you briefed me on yesterday. I hope its earliness will be sufficient recompense for my taking tomorrow off – an emergency back at home requires my presence and attention. Do let me know if the piece needs work, and I will endeavour to get back to it as soon as I can._

_Don Scripps_

He drops into bed after setting his alarm to wake him in a few hours’ time, and is dead to the world. At eight, when he reboots his clunky PC, there’s a reply.

_Keep being early, kid, and you’ll be in the good books. Wishing you luck at home._

_Rich_

Scripps catches the nine o’clock train back to Sheffield, and falls asleep with his head on the table.

When he eventually reaches the hospital, he seeks out Posner's hospital room, and peers through the blinds to discover that he’s out for the count.

‘Don,’ Mrs Posner greets Scripps as she spots him looking through the window beside where she stands outside the door. ‘He’s asleep, I’m afraid.’

‘I saw. Er. Should I wait out here for a bit, or…?’

‘No, no. I’m sure he’ll wake up soon, and it might be nice for him to see a friendly face when he does.’

Scripps nods in understanding, unable to stop his stomach flip-flopping with the knowledge that Posner’s mother thinks he might be able to make him happy. It’s a pleasant thought. Most likely unrealistic, but flattering in any case.

‘Has he been awake much?’ Scripps asks.

‘A little. He needs a lot of rest.’ Posner’s mother takes a deep breath and purses her lips as if steeling herself against the pesky emotions that threaten to take hold. She’s a tiny, bird-like woman with a straight back and her lips set in a formidable line. Scripps has always been more than a little afraid of her. ‘I’ll be back this afternoon.’ She hesitates. ‘Be gentle with him.’

‘Of course.’ Scripps promises, and Mrs Posner nods curtly before turning on her heel and striding off down the corridor. Scripps watches her go for a moment before opening the door to Posner’s room – a different one to the last time – and setting himself quietly down on the chair beside his head.

As he watches Posner’s chest rise and fall with slow, steady breathing, Scripps is struck by an unhappy sense of déjà vu. There’s no heart rate monitor this time, no drips. Posner sleeps with quiet peace, and Scripps sits back in his chair, alone with the clamour of his own thoughts and Posner’s soft breathing.

It takes half an hour of silent waiting for Posner to stir, his eyebrows creasing with disorientation as he’s dragged back into consciousness. His eyes, bleary and squinting, find Scripps’ face.

‘Don?’ he asks groggily, and his voice is so tiny, so raw, that Scripps feels like he might cry.

‘Yeah. How are you feeling?’

‘Tired. What are you doing here?’

Scripps shrugs, suddenly a little embarrassed at himself for showing up unannounced. ‘Thought you might like the company.’

‘You came from London?’

‘It’s not a bad journey on the train. Does it hurt?’ he nods towards the bandages, clumsily changing the subject. ‘Your hand.’

‘Oh,’ Posner looks down at his hand and frowns. ‘Not really. Five stitches and some paracetamol and I’m right as rain. Bet you didn’t think you’d be back here again so soon.’

‘No, Scripps admits. ‘But that might have been an oversight on my part. I suppose there’s no reason to think you’d be magically cured just because you’ve left Oxford and moved out.’

Posner raises his eyebrows in mild, amused surprise. ‘My mother would have you castrated for your pessimism.’

‘I prefer to think of it as realism.’

‘It’s refreshing, I have to say.’ There’s a shadow in Posner’s eyes. He looks completely exhausted. Scripps feels a pang of sadness, of worry, and has to take a deep breath.

‘You… you weren’t answering your calls.’

‘I wasn’t doing much of anything other than staying in bed. But they’ve let me stay in bed here, too, so I’m not sure why they think that should help.’

‘What happened, Pos?’

‘Just had a bit of a meltdown. My hand’s fine. It wasn’t bad. Although I don’t think that’s the reason I’m being kept in.’

‘Your mum said she brought you in the other night.’

‘They seemed to think I couldn’t look after myself,’ Posner’s tone is breezy but somewhat clipped, as if he’s trying to be matter-of-fact but failing to hide the bleak despair that crackles beneath the surface. ‘I suppose I checked out for a while. Stupid, really. Now I’ll never get another minute’s peace.’

‘It’s not stupid,’ Scripps shakes his head. Posner smiles blandly.

‘My father might disagree with you there.’

‘What about… the counselling? The pills? They don’t help?’

‘Not really,’ Posner sighs. ‘Haven’t been to my appointments for a little while. And the pills are turning me into a zombie. I don’t feel as sad, but I can barely feel _anything_. It’s like I’m not even here. I’m actually not sure which is worse.’

‘There’ll be other medication that will work better,’ Scripps reasons, feeling himself clutching a little desperately at straws, and inwardly chastising himself for his failure to keep a reassuring tone.

‘So I’ve been told. Suppose I’m headed back to the GP.’

Scripps nods tensely, and a silence falls. Posner closes his eyes against the harsh lights in his room.

‘When will they let you out of here?’ Scripps asks finally. Posner opens his eyes again.

‘Today or tomorrow, I should think. There’s nothing physically wrong with me, so they probably won’t need me for long.’

‘And what happens then?’

Posner shrugs. ‘I go back to Mother and Father’s for a little while, I suppose, and I’ll be scrutinised and smothered to within an inch of my life. I’ll be put on some other drug that may or may not work, and then I’ll go home and try to explain to my manager why I haven’t picked up the phone for three weeks.’

‘It’ll… it’ll get better,’ Scripps shifts uncomfortably, and can’t quite say for sure whether it’s Posner that he’s trying to convince or himself. ‘You’ve been doing better for a while. You just… dipped. Things will go back to normal.’

‘Until the next time.’ Posner looks older, more tired, than Scripps has ever seen before, and he feels his chest tighten.

‘There might not be a next time,’ he reminds him gently. ‘But, if there is, we’ll deal with that, too.’ He pauses, offers Posner a teasing smile. ‘Just maybe warn me in advance, so I can book it off work.’

Posner lets out a surprised laugh, the first Scripps has heard in a long while, as if taken aback by his own reaction.

‘I can’t believe you just said that,’ he shakes his head, but he looks more cheerful already. Scripps grins.

‘You did say you appreciate jokes. I, erm…’ he hesitates, embarrassed, and starts to dig inside his backpack for the book he slipped in earlier that morning, finding the hard, smooth cover and freeing it from the depths. ‘I wondered if you might like this. To read, or… for me to read to you. You know, if you’re too tired or… bored, or…’

‘I’d like that,’ Posner smiles softly, and Scripps exhales in grateful relief.

‘It’s Auden.’

‘You know me too well.’

‘Any requests?’

Posner considers for a moment. ‘ _As I Walked Out_.’

Scripps obligingly locates the poem in the contents, and leafs through the book to find it. He clears his throat before starting to read, and Posner’s eyes drift closed as he listens.

_‘As I walked out one evening,_

_Walking down Bristol Street,_

_The crowds upon the pavements_

_Were fields of harvest wheat._

_‘And down by the brimming river_

_I heard a lover sing_

_Under an arch of the railway:_

_“Love has no ending.”’_

It doesn’t take long for Posner to fall asleep again, drifting peacefully from the conscious realm into the next, his face softened and innocent with slumber.

Scripps wonders dimly how any manner of God up there in the Heavens could ever let this happen to someone like David Posner. In the future, if anyone were to ask, he thinks this might be the day that he finally lost his religion entirely.

_‘“O stand, stand at the window_

_As the tears scald and start;_

_You shall love your crooked neighbour_

_With your crooked heart.”_

_‘It was late, late in the evening,_

_The lovers they were gone;_

_The clocks had ceased their chiming,_

_And the deep river ran on.’_


	8. These Things Take Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scripps has a proposal for Posner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is quite a short chapter, where some important conversations take place. Only a couple of warnings: a little bit of mild mental health chat, and some helicopter parenting.  
> A quick note: the article that Posner is helping Scripps with is vaguely about the ‘Guildford Four’, who were convicted of IRA bombings and then had their convictions quashed in 1989. I got all this information from the BBC News page, and paraphrased some of it in Scripps’ quote that he reads down the phone.

_But I can’t believe that you’d ever care_

_And this is why you will never care_

_But these things take time_

_I know that I’m_

_The most inept_

_That ever stepped_

*

‘Alright. B3.’

‘Miss.’

‘ _Fuck!_ ’ Scripps groans, glowering at the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him, covered with the roughly-scribbled approximation of a Battleships board. He balances the phone between his ear and shoulder, and types another couple of words into his desktop PC. The office buzzes and clatters and shouts around him. ‘Where is it, then?’

‘I’m not telling you, you idiot. A2.’

‘Hit. Why am I even playing this with you?’

‘You know why.’ Posner’s voice is gleefully smug at having lassoed Scripps again into entertaining him, his “condition” for helping Scripps with his current article. He’s back in his flat now, having survived two weeks out of hospital, but he’d had to fight his parents tooth and nail for the privilege of independence. Being stuck at home with nothing to keep him occupied is leaving him bored and unfulfilled, and increasingly likely to offer linguistic assistance in return for a game of something that can be played down the phone. ‘Come on, guess again.’

‘Is it even on the board?’ Scripps grumbles.

‘It’s ready and waiting in plain sight.’

‘Is it fuck. C5.’

There’s a brief pause down the line. ‘…Bollocks.’

‘Aha!’ Scripps grins. ‘Alright, how about this: _“The inquiry has significantly thrown into doubt the honesty and integrity of the Surrey police force, given the severity of the charges. The Four, jailed for life in 1975, had their convictions quashed by the Court of Appeal at 3:17 yesterday afternoon.”_ ’

‘Yes, that’s better,’ Posner replies. ‘Makes you sound like a posh southern twat.’

‘I’ll put that on my resume. Speaking of which, and not that I don’t enjoy that you’re constantly at the other end of the phone…’

‘I’m trying, Don,’ Posner sighs heavily. ‘Jobs aren’t exactly ten-a-penny when you’ve got a history of depressive episodes and nervous breakdown. And I have only just got back on my feet.’

‘I know, I know. I wouldn’t ask if you weren’t so bored.’ Scripps hesitates. ‘Have you thought about…?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t even know what I was going to say!’ Scripps protests at Posner’s flat response.

‘Yes, I do, and I’m not moving back in with my parents while my mother is in her current state,’ Posner replies grimly. Scripps raises his eyebrows.

‘That bad, is it?’

‘It’s _terrible_ , Scrippsy,’ Posner groans melodramatically, a sure sign that he’s well on the road to recovery and back to his normal self, and Scripps can’t help but feel warm inside at the return of his friend. ‘They won’t leave me alone.’

‘Well, can you blame them?’

‘I suppose not,’ Posner concedes. ‘But I can’t breathe with my mother babying me all the time.’

‘Have you made a doctors’ appointment yet?’

‘You’re just as bad.’

‘I’m assuming that’s a “no”, then.’

‘Drop it, Don.’

‘Aren’t friends supposed to mother each other, just a little bit?’ Scripps teases.

‘No, they’re supposed to encourage you to do stupid, reckless things.’

‘I’m not sure you need any help with that after having a fist-fight with a mirror.’

Posner laughs in semi-surprise. ‘You little shit!’

Scripps glances up to spot Rich careering through the office in his direction, and hurriedly pushes his makeshift Battleships board under the stack of files on his desk.

‘Editor’s coming,’ Scripps mutters. ‘Got to run.’

‘See you,’ Posner replies without hesitation, and the line goes dead. Scripps slams the phone back onto the hook with a clatter.

‘Don,’ Rich’s voice calls, surprisingly close, and Scripps looks up mildly with an expression of interest and feigned innocence. ‘Want six hundred works on Thatcher’s demise?’

‘Erm. Please,’ Scripps blinks in surprise.

‘Great. My desk, in five, so I can brief you.’ Rich strides off again, leaving Scripps stunned at his own good luck. He’ll have to tell Pos about this.

*

It’s tough work being a journalist. The hours are long, the work is demanding, and Scripps often finds himself torn between several tasks that he has been asked to fulfil all at once. But, having got used to the pace and rather improved his stamina in the couple of months that he’s been there, he finds that he quite enjoys the pressure of an imminent deadline, the constant, focused thrum of the office as it buzzes around him to get the next issue printed in time. He loves the hustle and bustle of London, and has grown to accept, if not entirely appreciate, the noises and smells of his bright little flat. He spends his lunch hours drinking overpriced espresso in hip coffee bars and scribbling in his notebook, or reading if he has time, furrowing his brow and pushing his glasses firmly up his nose every time they begin to creep downwards towards the page. He settles in, he writes, he cooks, and he struggles by on his meagre paycheque, which just about covers food on top of the unfairly extortionate rent.

But there’s a loneliness to life in the flat, a quietness that is difficult to shake. He talks to Posner on the phone more than ever, more even than to his parents, and is filled with happiness at being able to catch up with him when he does. His voice down the line stirs a contented, warm kind of pleasure in his stomach that is distractingly similar to the way he used to feel when he would call Alice, though he chooses to firmly push that comparison to one side. Their calls are usually the highlight of his day.

‘I’m in the middle of a piece on London rent prices,’ Scripps informs Posner one evening, feet up on the sofa and phone at his ear as he reclines after a long day, ‘which is ironic, really, since I’m being crushed under the weight of my bills. Still, they’ve given me half a page, which is a step up from the last one.’

‘Half a page?’ Posner’s impressed smile is audible down the phone line. ‘That’s great, Don! That’s a lot!’

‘Yeah, by next week I’ll be writing the entire paper, just you wait.’

‘I wouldn’t joke if I were you. I’m pretty sure your mum would believe you.’

‘Probably,’ Scripps grins. ‘Whereas yours would give you a sharp smack across the back of the head for being a cheeky bastard.’

‘Not at the moment, she wouldn’t,’ Posner mutters. ‘She and Father are round here every other bloody day, badgering me. It’s driving me insane.’

‘Still?’

‘Still. I think they see my recent _“episode”_ as proof that I’m incapable of living on my own.’ Posner’s distaste at the word is evident in his voice, dripping with poison. ‘It doesn’t half piss me off to know they’ve got good reason to believe that – if I were them, I’d think so, too.’

‘It’s only because they care, Pos.’

‘I know,’ he sighs. ‘I know, and I’m lucky to have them and their support, and I am grateful for it, really. It’s just a little… humiliating at times.’

‘Is it better living on your own than it was at theirs?’

‘It doesn’t make much of a difference where I am. If I’m sad in my own house, I’ll be sad in theirs too. I’ll just have less privacy to do so.’

‘That doesn’t necessarily sound like a bad thing, given your track record.’

‘Alright, smartarse. I just do better when I _feel_ like I can cope on my own, and being smothered is doing exactly the opposite.’

‘Pos…’ Scripps says delicately. ‘Have you thought about… about coming to live with me?’

It’s not as if it hasn’t crossed his mind before: it’s quiet in the flat apart from the phone calls between them that take place every other night. Scripps looks forward to hearing Posner’s voice, to his long-suffering sighs as he schools Scripps on how to properly take care of his plants, his melodramatic complaining, and his dry, sarcastic wit. Having him actually _there_ , well… Scripps can’t pretend the idea doesn’t appeal. He misses hanging out with Posner, having him close by. And he could do with a flatmate to help pay the rent, of course. Yes. That’s the main reason, obviously.

‘What?’ Posner scoffs.

‘Well, you’re desperate to get away from your parents and prove to yourself that you can live away from them. A change of scene might do you good. And they already know me and trust me, so that might sweeten the deal for them.’

‘Stop it, Don,’ Posner says heavily, his tone suddenly tired. Scripps frowns, unsure what exactly he’s doing.

‘Stop what?’

‘I don’t want pity, and I certainly don’t need a nanny. I’m perfectly fine on my own, despite what you and my parents might seem to think. I don’t need to be cared for or tiptoed around or scrutinised and watched every fucking second. Just… don’t.’

‘Pos,’ Scripps shakes his head in exasperation, even though Posner can’t see him, ‘don’t be ridiculous. I’m not just “taking pity” on you, and I wouldn’t be your carer. Of course I think you’re capable of being independent. I just meant it might suit both of us.’

‘Right,’ Posner sighs dully, ‘and how’s that?’

‘Well, I could do with a flatmate, in all honesty. I’m trying to get by and keep up the rent on woefully inadequate funds, so I could do with the help.’ He falters. ‘And it does get a little… lonely here, sometimes. I sort of miss having you around.’

‘You’re being soft again,’ Posner accuses, but there’s something oddly strained beneath his tone, as if he’s trying not to let on that he’s moved by the sentiment.

‘You’d be soft too if you’d been living on noodles and Quavers for a week.’

‘Maybe if you didn’t spend your entire salary on coffee…’

‘Oi. Coffee is my only joy in life.’

There’s a moment of not-uncomfortable silence before Posner speaks softly. ‘Do you mean it, Don? It’s not just that you feel sorry for me?’

‘Of course not. You need your freedom and a change of scene, and I need the rent. And the company. Your company, specifically.’ Scripps clears his throat a little awkwardly, taking himself by surprise at his own honesty. ‘I do have one condition, however.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You see a doctor. Get a new prescription.’

Posner laughs, and it sounds a little choked. ‘I hate you.’

When Scripps puts the phone down ten minutes later, he rubs his hands down his face and relishes the feeling of hopeful pleasure bubbling in his stomach. It’ll be good having Posner around, having someone to talk to. Having a friend. A _friend_ ; that’s what he is. This is what friends do, isn’t it? They share accommodation so they can split the rent and have somewhere to crash? It must be.

Scripps turns on the TV before he can think any more about it, and takes a deep breath. Things might be about to look up.


	9. Ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posner moves in, and Scripps has a personal crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearly there, fellas. Welcome to the penultimate chapter.  
> Warnings: references to depression, breakdown and medication, as well as alcohol consumption and sex references.

_Shyness is nice and shyness can stop you_

_From doing all the things in life you’d like to_

_So, if there’s something you’d like to try,_

_If there’s something you’d like to try,_

_Ask me, I won’t say no, how could I?_

*

It takes less than a week for Posner to move into Scripps’ flat, that being his accurately predicted timescale for convincing his parents that he’ll be well looked after by his best friend. Scripps suspects that Mr and Mrs Posner’s feelings on the matter are likely to be a complex combination of protectiveness, worry and relief that he has somewhere else to go where he won’t be quite so alone.

He’s to continue to pay off the few remaining months of his old lease in Sheffield before starting to contribute to Scripps’ own rent, if he can, whether that’s through a job, or disability benefits, or both. Scripps is very clear in making sure he knows it’s not a big deal if sometimes he just can’t afford it.

‘Alright, Scrippsy,’ Posner grins over the boxes stacked in his arms when Scripps opens the door.

Scripps helps his friend unpack, hanging up his shirts in the wardrobe beside his own, and clearing him a space in the bathroom cabinet for his comb and toothbrush. His pot plants bloom happily and contentedly next to Scripps’ rather sad ones on the windowsill.

‘You’ve over-watering them,’ Posner tuts as he inspects the leaves. ‘I’ll sort them out. _Don’t_ touch them.’

From somewhere in the third box, Posner pulls out a slightly tatty Magdalen scarf, his grandmother’s music box that Scripps recognises from his childhood bedroom, and a small pile of photographs secured by an elastic band.

‘Are those your parents?’ Scripps asks interestedly, slipping on his glasses to see more clearly the young couple smiling back at them from the top photo as Posner removes the band.

‘Yes. From when they first met. It’s strange seeing Father with hair.’

‘It’s strange seeing your mother with a smile,’ Scripps counters, and Posner snorts. He flicks through them, and pulls out a photograph that Scripps knows well, and yet hasn’t seen in years. The edges are dog-eared, but the faces of the boys on their sixth form history trip grin happily out, Hector proudly in the middle, flanked by Totty and Irwin.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Scripps laughs, ‘that feels like another lifetime.’

‘Did you ever iron your bloody shirt?’

‘God, don’t you look young.’

Posner gives him a withering look. ‘Yes, Don, I was painfully aware, I can assure you.’

‘Well, we all do, really,’ Scripps amends. ‘Haven’t we got old?’

‘Yes, it’s surprising what an Oxford degree and a mental breakdown can do to your skin.’

‘Isn’t Irwin on TV these days?’

‘Dunno,’ Posner shrugs. ‘I know he was doing a history programme at one point, but I never saw it. Apparently it was mostly bollocks.’

‘Somehow, I’m unsurprised.’

The two boys – men, now, though Scripps isn’t sure he feels like one – sit on the floor and stare at the photograph for a minute or two, taking it in. It feels like an age ago, like it wasn’t really him, but some imposter in his baggy shirt and school tie, sitting scruffily among the rest of the boys, expectant and bright-eyed with excitement about the future ahead.

‘Do you think that’s when our lives really started?’ Posner says after a while. ‘When it all changed?’

Scripps thinks for a moment. ‘Maybe. But everything’s always changing. Why? Do you think anything could have turned out differently?’

‘Probably not. I don’t think the world works like that.’

Scripps raises an eyebrow. ‘Are you going to tell me you believe in fate?’

‘I just think things happen the way they’re supposed to happen. In a sense, at least. If something hadn’t happened the way it did, then we wouldn’t be where we are now. I suppose it makes more sense in reverse.’

‘It’s not just that you thought you and Dakin were star-crossed lovers, then,’ Scripps grins, and Posner rolls his eyes, but fails to keep the smirk off his face.

‘Shove off, Don.’

Posner leans his head back against the seat of the sofa from where he’s sitting on the floor in front of it, and Don follows suit. A comfortable silence settles on their shoulders.

‘D’you ever hear from Alice?’ Posner asks after a while.

‘Not really. She emailed a while ago, just to say she’s settling in at her new job. She really likes America.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Yeah.’ Scripps’ eyes drift shut.

‘Do you miss her?’

‘In a way. But it wasn’t going to last long-distance. I think I just miss talking to her more than I actually miss _her_.’

‘Gosh, Posner says drily, ‘sounds _ever_ so romantic.’

‘Oi,’ Scripps opens his eyes and elbows his companion lightly. ‘It’s not as if I’ve got much time for romance, is it? Or many people I know around here.’

‘You’ve got me,’ Posner shrugs, and then frowns suddenly, the tips of his ears turning red as he realises the implications. ‘Not that… okay, that didn’t come out quite the way I meant it.’

Scripps huffs a laugh, pretending that his heart hasn’t skipped a beat, that the familiar warmth isn’t blooming in his chest as he sits with his head leaning back, listening to the muffled sounds of the takeaway below. Posner is soft-haired and beautiful beside him, relaxed and bathed in the sunlight shining through the window. It’s incredibly distracting.

‘Maybe I should give it a try,’ Posner muses.

‘Dating?’

‘No, dogging. Of course dating, you prick.’

‘Alright, alright,’ Scripps rolls his eyes with his best put-upon sigh, but a sliver of discomfort comes from nowhere to prod him in the side. He swallows it down, pushes it away. ‘Far be it from me to judge you if it were the former.’

‘I’ll choose not to take offence to that. Anyway, there’s got to be more opportunity down here than in Sheffield. And it’s been long enough, don’t you think?’

‘Yeah. Maybe.’ Scripps tries not to grit his teeth, the discomfort poking harder. It’s paired with a stirring in his stomach that feels suspiciously like jealousy but absolutely, categorically, _isn’t_. ‘Just… no bringing guys back here, alright? There is only one room, after all.’

Posner grins, and Scripps grimaces back. ‘I think that’s a reasonable request.’

Scripps squeezes his eyes tightly shut against his approaching headache, cursing his stupid brain for putting all sorts of ridiculous feelings into his head. _It’s not as if he came here for you, is it?_ a cruel voice points out. _You needed money, and he needed freedom. It’s all just convenience._

He sighs heavily, and pushes it all away, more forcefully this time.

‘We should make dinner,’ he mutters. Posner makes a face.

‘Fancy a Chinese?’

‘Ugh,’ Scripps scrunches up his nose, sick to the back teeth of the smell of sweet and sour. ‘Anything but.’

‘Pizza, then.’

‘You’re on.’

Instead of sitting on the sofa like normal people to eat their pizza, they plant themselves back on the floor with a bottle of red wine to celebrate Posner’s moving in, reminiscing about school and their endless summer days lying in the sun when they were children. The world looks different from the ground up. Scripps can understand why this is Posner’s preferred sitting position.

It’s late by the time Posner disappears into the bathroom to brush his teeth and change. Scripps dumps his empty moving boxes outside the door of the flat to be recycled in the morning, and lays his spare blanket and second pillow across the sofa. He strips off his shirt and trousers, getting quickly into his pyjamas before Posner can re-enter the room.

Posner emerges wearing pale blue pyjama bottoms and a vest, and Scripps tries not to look. He clears his throat.

‘Erm. We’ll get another bed soon. I know it’s not ideal, but…’

‘It’s fine,’ Posner shakes his head, sitting on the sofa and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, ‘don’t worry. I can sleep anywhere.’

‘Sorry it’s a bit rubbish,’ Scripps scratches the back of his head. ‘I should take the sofa, really…’

‘Don. Just go to bed.’

Scripps hesitates for a moment, before giving in. ‘Right.’

He gets into the bed and pulls the duvet up to his chin, staring up at the ceiling. He’s all too aware of Posner lying down on the sofa, wriggling and twisting to get into a comfortable position.

Scripps sits up again.

‘Pos, just… just get in here, will you?’

Posner’s confused eyes peep out from over the top of his blanket. ‘What?’

‘It’s a double bed,’ Scripps sighs, ‘it’s meant for two. We’re both adults, for Christ’s sake, we’ve known each other since we were kids…’

‘Yeah, you sound _completely_ comfortable with that,’ Posner rolls his eyes. ‘I told you, it’s fine.’

‘I _am_ comfortable with it. Really. Come on, it… it doesn’t make sense for you to sleep on the sofa, it’s far too small. I just want _you_ to be comfortable. Whether that’s… on the sofa, or… not.’

Posner sits up and gives Scripps a look.

‘Alright. But you should know, I operate on a strict no-sex-before-marriage rule, and…’

‘Oh, just get in the fucking bed, Pos.’

Posner heaves a sigh and picks himself and his pillow up off the sofa, before thumping it down on the bed and climbing in besides Scripps.

‘First time you’ve had a man in your bed?’ Posner asks drily. ‘I’m not going to attack you, you know.’

Scripps snorts. ‘You? Attack me? You’d need a stepladder.’

Posner smacks him. ‘You’re a prick.’

‘And yet, you still love me,’ Scripps grins, and Posner rolls his eyes.

‘Go to sleep.’

‘Goodnight to you, too.’

Posner turns over the face the wall, curling himself into the duvet so it’s up around his ears, and his hand brushes Scripps’ arm as he pulls the covers around himself. Scripps feels the hairs all over his body stand on end, a prickle of electricity in the air. He frowns, and turns away from Posner, a feeling of confused discomfort hovering somewhere in his periphery as he slips into unconsciousness before he has a chance to think about it.

*

When Scripps’ alarm rings in the morning, he’s jerked awake with force, slamming it off and lying grouchily back down on his back to collect himself before even remembering that Posner has moved in with him. It takes his friend letting out a delicate snuffle and wriggling to cocoon himself further into the duvet before he remembers that, not only has Posner _moved in_ with him, but is also _in the bed_ with him. Scripps holds his breath for a moment until Posner stills, falling silent once more.

Scripps watches the rise and fall of Posner’s back as he breathes, deeply and regularly. It’s peaceful, like they have entered some other realm outside the real world, undisturbed by noises and movement and the passage of time. Scripps shouldn’t want to reach out and place his hand on Posner’s back, to pull him into an embrace and feel the warmth of his body all along his, from head to toe, but he realises with a start that he does.

Scripps hastily swings his legs out of bed, and rubs a hand over his face. _No, no, no. Far too complicated for this time in the morning._

He makes his way a little clumsily to the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth, and is dressed and popping bread in the toaster by the time Posner has stirred: Posner, who, apparently, can sleep through the shower running, the kettle boiling, and, probably, the end of the bleeding world.

‘Mornin’,’ Posner mumbles groggily, stumbling up behind Scripps and putting a hand on his shoulder. Scripps feels his muscles tense.

‘Morning. Breakfast?’

Posner makes a face. ‘Not yet. Coffee would be nice, though.’

Scripps wordlessly pushes a mug of milky coffee into his hands, and Posner looks down at it in surprise.

‘Gosh, look at us. It’s like being somebody’s wife.’

Scripps avoids his gaze, unsure quite how to answer. If he’s honest with himself, which he’s trying very hard to not be, Posner’s fluffy bed-hair, sticking up in all directions, is doing funny things to his insides. He’s fresh-faced and bleary-eyed, still wearing his soft-looking, blue pyjamas, and it throws Scripps more than a little. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

‘Yeah, well.’ Scripps moves past him, still not meeting his gaze, and retrieves his toast so he can start spreading it with jam. Posner gives him a slightly funny look, which Scripps sees out the corner of his eye, but doesn’t say anything, so Scripps ignores it. He slips the jam back into the fridge and takes a bite of toast as Posner wanders over to perch on the sofa and drink his coffee.

‘God, I should really stop drinking,’ he sighs dramatically, glaring in disgust at the light coming through the curtains.

‘I did tell you,’ Scripps frowns, suddenly concerned. ‘The doctor said…’

‘I know what the doctor said,’ Posner cuts him off sharply. ‘But hell if I’m going to sit out of my own housewarming party on account of some Citalopram.’

Scripps eats his toast in silence, leaning against the kitchen counter, before turning to leave.

‘Er. will you be alright here?’ he asks. Posner turns to give him a indignant look, and Scripps feels his stomach flutter at his ridiculous hair, his blue eyes glowering reproachfully at him over the top of the sofa.

‘I’m not a child, Don. Anyway, I’ll be out job-hunting.’

‘Oh,’ Scripps smiles, picking up his satchel and slipping over his head. ‘Great. Well. Good luck, David.’

Posner arches an eyebrow delicately. ‘David now, is it?’

Scripps feels his face heat up. ‘We’ve grown up a bit since school, I should think.’

‘Mm,’ Posner hums softly in agreement, still watching him with an unreadable expression. ‘That we have.’

There’s an oddly formal pause, before Scripps clears his throat, stomach flip-flopping with nerves and something else that he’s quickly realising he can’t ignore.

‘Right, well. I’m off to work. I’ll see you later.’

‘See you,’ Posner turns back around to sip his coffee, and Scripps lets himself out of the door, shutting it behind him, and taking a moment to stand dumbly at the top of the concrete steps, breathing in the cold autumn air.

With the benefit of hindsight, Scripps thinks that this might have been in the works for a long time, building and building, quietly and undetected, until big enough to fuel itself. But it’s maybe the first time that he fully lets himself realise that he’s absolutely, completely and utterly, fucked.


	10. Hand in Glove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ends and beginnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, guys: the crescendo. Some trigger warnings for: anxiety and panic attacks, as well as references to depression/breakdown/suicide attempt and related medication. I high-key headcanon Scripps as having some issues with anxiety and panic. He’s my hard-working perfectionist boy, and honestly I feel like he’d push himself way too hard and get himself in a state. There are a couple of sex references in there too.  
> Thanks for sticking with me right to the end.

_Hand in glove_

_The sun shines out of our behinds_

_No, it’s not like any other love_

_This one is different because it’s us_

_Hand in glove_

_We can go wherever we please_

_And everything depends on how near you stand to me_

_And if the people stare_

_Then the people stare_

_I really don’t know and I really don’t care_

*

Don Scripps isn’t one to sugar-coat things and, in any case, he’d never expected living with Posner to be easy. But, somehow, they manage.

Don learns how David works on a day-to-day basis very quickly: he needs a lot of sleep, and struggles desperately to get out of bed most mornings. This means that very few late nights are had, and that Don is often charged with coaxing him out of his cocoon with coffee and toast in the mornings. The medication, David has explained (and Don is relieved to know that his more recent prescription has been working far better than Prozac or Paroxetine or any of the other multitudes that he’s tried throughout the years), isn’t there to “make him happy”. They work by clearing his mind a little, dulling the sting of the very darkest thoughts and emotions so that it’s slightly easier for him to function normally and do the things for himself that actually help. He functions best with routine, for example: eating proper meals at the right times and getting enough sleep are crucial. Forgetting to eat is a problem some days, and his mood drops with his blood sugar, leaving him dulled and exhausted and, occasionally, bed-ridden. Don often finds himself reminding him to eat and drink regularly, and to take his meds. He doesn’t mind.

For the first couple of weeks of David being on his new prescription, his body and mind startled by an influx of new chemicals, things are bad. Some days, he sleeps until the sun is setting, pulling the covers up around his head to block out the sound and the light and the pain of living through another day, eyes squeezed shut against the thick sobs that threaten to escape the liminal drift between wakefulness and sleep. Don works from home on those days, tapping away at his computer and peering at David through his wire-rimmed glasses as he buries himself in blankets and desperate misery, asking quietly, _does he need water? Food? Company? Quiet?_ David shakes his head, or nods, and waits until it passes, until he can open his eyes again to the sounds of birdsong the next morning and face the new day in the way he couldn’t face the old. It serves to remind Don not to be complacent, to show him what it’s really like to live with a depression such as David’s: one that can usually be kept at bay with pills and routine, but occasionally manages to rear its ugly head, leaving Don wondering desperately how much more he can take, but always, always sticking it out until it gets better. Sometimes it’s good, occasionally it’s awful, and often it’s somewhere in the muddy waters of morose and melodramatic that lie in between. The good days increase with the length of time he’s been on his new prescription: two weeks, then three, then four. The worst times are as unpredictable as David himself, but they become a mercifully rare occurrence.

The outdoors helps, and so does being creative; he enjoys cooking, and tending to the steadily multiplying pot plants on the windowsill. Don is happy to see that all of them, including his own unhappily over-watered shrubs, are doing much better under David’s care and, as time meanders steadily on, David seems to be doing much better, too. Hackney, which he semi-fondly refers to as “the arsehole of London”, seems to give him a new lease of life. Maybe it’s the independence, maybe it’s the pills, maybe it’s Don, or maybe it’s all three. Either way, it suits him.

As much as it’s undeniably difficult and draining dealing with David’s darkest times and everyday requirements, it’s not as if Don can’t grit his teeth and handle it with patience and compassion when he needs to, or as if Don is entirely devoid of his own needs and moods and flaws himself. While David requires persuading to get out of bed, Don needs to be told in no uncertain terms to get into it, when he’s still typing away at his computer at midnight. While David needs to be reminded to eat something because he’s completely forgotten to do so since yesterday afternoon, Don needs to be reminded that the world won’t end if he can’t get a sentence perfectly right, that he needs to relax sometimes and stop stressing before he gives himself his third panic attack of the week.

Also, Don is very quickly forced out of the habit of peeing with the door open.

It doesn’t take long for David to find work, soon managing to land a job in a nearby café, whose owner is willing to accommodate his usual functioning hours of about eleven until five. He’d been sick with nerves on his first day, and David had patted his shoulder in awkward reassurance.

‘Chin up, Pos,’ he’d told him, ‘you’ll manage. Just be yourself.’ David had glared back at him.

‘Don, that’s the worst advice you could possibly give me.’

They settle into a comfortable routine: Don is out every day during the week, and David usually works lunchtimes and afternoons in the café, so that he’s back by the time Don arrives home from work. Often, when Don comes home in the evenings, David is humming in the kitchen while he cooks something for dinner, or curled up on the sofa, or perched on the windowsill with the pot plants reading a book, or sometimes fast asleep napping in their bed.

Don still feels a little strange calling it “their” bed. He takes to sleeping as far away from David as possible, and getting up as soon as his alarm sounds to put the kettle on before his friend wakes, the prospect of them waking up together in the same bed making his hands clammy and his mouth dry. It’s an odd situation to be in, sharing a bed with someone who has that effect on you, and Don… Don is falling fast.

It had taken a little while to get used to the idea of loving David but, once the realisation had taken hold, there had been nothing stopping it. Every smile, every word out of David’s mouth makes his heart stutter and skip with confusion and nerves, his pulse racing so fast every time an inch of skin brushes against his that he can’t even look him in the eye. It doesn’t make it any easier that David is clearly fully aware of his strange behaviour, maybe even guessing at the reason for it, and determinedly avoiding ever mentioning it.

Don is surprisingly unsurprised that his attractions extend to members of the same sex as well as to the opposite. He had probably assumed, as a teenager, that it would be women with whom he would fall in love, most likely as the result of everybody else’s assumptions and prejudices about how things _should_ be. But it’s not as if he’d ever ruled it out, ever bothered to question it too much, since the progression of being celibate to having a long-term girlfriend hadn’t left a huge amount of time for thought. In fact, he’d done his best to ignore all of those types of feelings whilst at school and, if he’d had to take a cold shower or two to derail his thoughts from the boys in the locker room, well, that was the same for all teenage boys, wasn’t it?

When it had come to Alice, he supposes, the situations had been barely comparable. They had only got to know each other through dates; she had made her interest known right from the start; he had never had to do any of the wooing and chasing. With David, the story is completely different, and it has nothing to do with gender or preference. He just has no idea what to do or how to go about it when it comes to falling for his best friend, someone he’s known better than he’s ever known himself, inside-out and back-to-front, since they were children; someone he’d read to in hospital until he’d drifted off to sleep, peaceful and soft and beautiful in slumber; someone who had travelled miles and miles from Sheffield to London to come and live with him, to share a space and a home and a bed with him. It’s different because it’s Pos.

It’s too much to think about.

*

In the end, it’s a cold, autumnal Saturday morning in November, Don pottering around the kitchen in his pyjamas trying to find the porridge scoop, when everything changes.

‘Have you seen my coat?’ David wanders in with his hair sticking up and his all-black work uniform on, and Don’s heart flutters at the sight.

‘On the peg,’ he replies, resisting the urge to add the words, ‘where it always is,’ but David raises his eyebrows and grins, not letting it pass unnoticed.

‘You sound more like your mother every day.’

‘Shut up. You home for tea? I’ll do us a roast, it’s been ages since I’ve had one.’

‘Trimmings?’

‘All of them.’

‘God,’ David groans with blissful approval and touches his hand to his breast in a charade of modest flirtation, peering up at Don through his lashes. Don’s brain short-circuits. ‘You’ll give a girl ideas.’

David, apparently unaware that Don has entirely lost the art of speech, picks up his coffee from the sideboard with slightly too much gusto, and predictably slops it over his hand and shirt. He yelps, making Don jump out of his skin.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ he groans, flapping his hands, leaving a stunned Don standing staring at him.

‘Shit. Was it hot?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ David has disappeared into the wardrobe. ‘But now I need to bloody _change_ or I’ll be late.’ He grabs an identical black button-down work shirt, and goes into the bathroom to change. He emerges a second later, flushed and flustered, and Don’s heart twists and flutters at the sight of him.

‘You’ve got a button undone,’ he points out, and David huffs and buttons it up. ‘And, er.’ Don gestures towards his neck. ‘Your collar.’

David makes a low noise of frustration, already at the end of his tether, and Don reaches out to smooth it down where it sticks out untidily. He can feel the heat of David’s skin under his fingers, and his heart hammers in response, surely loud enough for David to hear. He lifts his eyes, hand still on David’s collar, to see him looking back into his face.

The air is thick with silence, and David’s eyes are locked with his. Don can barely even breathe.

‘What is this, Don?’ David murmurs softly, and blood rushes in Don’s ears. Fuck. _Stupid prick,_ the voice goads, _you’re making a fool out of yourself._ He drops his hand quickly, and looks away, clearing his throat and feeling his face flush.

‘What’s what?’ He’s aware of David still watching him closely for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he sighs heavily and suddenly he’s stepping away, eyes dull and dark and disappointed.

‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’ David sets his jaw and determinedly avoids Don’s gaze, moving towards the front door to locate his scarf. Don is left with the feeling that he’s missed something, that David is frustrated with him for a reason he can’t fathom.

‘David, what…?’

‘Do you have some kind of problem with me?’ David demands suddenly, and Don is more than a little taken aback.

‘A… a problem?’

‘With me being gay.’

‘ _What?_ ’ Don can’t help but choke out an incredulous laugh: out of all the things he’d been expecting David to be upset about, this isn’t one of them. ‘Pos, have you gone insane? I’ve known for years and never cared less, so why should it suddenly be an issue now?’

‘Because I’m in your _house_ now, Don! I’m in your _space_! I’m not just a voice at the end of the phone that you can ignore until you get bored or lonely, and that’s very clearly a problem for you, going by how obviously uncomfortable you seem to be with me nowadays.’

‘If that’s how you think I see you, then…’

‘Then what, Don?’ David cuts him off, throwing his hands in the air, and Don feels everything spiralling out of control. ‘How _do_ you see me? _You_ asked me to move in with you, and then you act like you can’t bear to be in the same room as me. You barely even _look_ at me! So, forgive me if I feel like I’m getting some mixed signals here, but if it’s not that you think I’m some kind of lech who’s going to jump you at any minute…’

‘It’s not!’

‘D’you know what?’ David bends to tie up his laces, his movements short and sharp and angry. ‘Save it. I’m going to work.’

With that, he slams out of the flat, leaving Don in shocked silence and at a total loss as to what on earth had just happened.

He stands dumb for a moment or two, staring at the door with his heart thundering at a million miles an hour, until he feels the dizzy spinning of nausea that signals an oncoming panic attack. He staggers to the bathroom and allows it to get out of his system, gripping the sink with shaking, white-knuckled hands while he gasps for breath in an airless room.

When his breathing is mostly back to normal, he splashes water over his face and appraises his haggard expression in the mirror. He wonders if he’ll ever fully understand the desperate despair that David must have felt to put his hand through the mirror in his old house. Probably not. His mind supplies the unhelpful reminder that he hasn’t panicked that badly since the time he’d called an ambulance for the still, unconscious form of his best friend lying on his bedroom floor. That boy is going to be the death of him.

He showers and dresses in a mechanical haze of numbness, barely thinking about what he’s doing, and finally leaves the flat. His legs take him to Hackney Downs, and he doesn’t bother to question their decision. He sits heavily on a bench, only half-noticing the autumnal chill that breathes through the seams of his coat. It’s here that he and David often visit for a walk on Sundays when both have days off work, after they’ve done the food shop and have time to spare, David usually bringing along his clunky camera and trying to take snapshots of the squirrels. The photographs all come back as blurs of fluffy tail, half-caught in frightened flight as they turn and scamper into the trees, missed by a fraction of a second. David doesn’t seem to mind.

Don _has_ been different with David lately, he has to admit, but for entirely different reasons than the one his friend thinks. And, while maybe he’s been going about all this the wrong way, though Don has no idea whether this is the case or not, he’s not sure how much he’s to blame for his recent strange behaviour around David. It’s difficult being physically close to someone who makes your skin tingle and your breath hitch every time he draws near; it’s difficult engaging in the light-hearted banter and jokey flirting that they’ve thrown around for years with the person whose smile and voice and name thrums in your veins, now that even the lightest of teasing colours his ears red. It’s difficult to function normally through the fear of his own feelings, the fear of ruining the friendship that he cherishes so thoroughly, the fear of David not feeling the same.

Don’s thoughts cackle and howl around his skull, and he groans.

He isn’t sure how long he sits there on the cold bench, watching the squirrels chase each other up and down the tree trunks while the brisk chill rustles through brittle, ochre leaves but, by the time he feels ready to head home, the November sun is hanging low in the orange sky. It probably places him at around four o’clock, he muses vaguely. David will be home from work by now. He stands, buttocks aching in protest at their extended contact with the hard wood of the bench, and takes some deep, steadying breaths before trudging back to the flat.

When he lets himself in, the lights are on and a steady warmth radiates from the walls, David having finally fixed the central heating and cranked it to life a couple of days before, after their landlord had entirely failed to be of any help. He’s curled up on the sofa, wrapped in Don’s tatty, grey blanket, and reading what looks suspiciously like _Little Women_. He looks up when Don steps into the room, a crease of worry at his brow as he closes his book and swings his legs out from under him to perch on the edge of the sofa. Don’s heart stutters at the sight of him looking so forlorn.

‘Don,’ David greets him nervously. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Er. Just the park. Needed to clear my head.’

‘Right.’

An uncomfortable silence falls, broken by Don taking a deep breath and saying, ‘David,’ at the same time as David says, ‘Don.’ David grimaces in apology.

‘Can I just… can I just say something?’ he asks haltingly, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth, and Don inclines his head awkwardly in assent. ‘I want to apologise for earlier. Look, I know you don’t have a problem with me, and I shouldn’t have gone off at you like that. It was out of order.’

Don shrugs. ‘It’s alright…’

‘No, it’s not, and I’m sorry,’ David interrupts with a finality in his tone that forces Don to nod in quiet acceptance of his apology. ‘I know it’s never been an issue for you before, but I guess… I was just worried that, now I’m living in your flat…’

‘ _Our_ flat,’ Don corrects him automatically, and David gives a dismissive flap of his hand.

‘Yes. Well. I thought that it might have, you know… brought it closer to home.’

‘I suppose it has, in a way,’ Don rubs the back of his neck gingerly, before noticing David’s downcast eyes and face looking like he’s just been punched in the stomach, and hastily backtracks. ‘Wait, not like… sorry, that’s not what I meant. It’s just made me think about some things.’ He sighs, and squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I don’t know how to say this, Pos…’

‘You want me to leave.’ David stands as he says it with such quiet, dull acceptance, like this is what he’s expected all along, that Don is almost struck dumb with disbelief.

‘What? No, of course not! I love having you here. I love…’ He takes a shuddering breath, struggling to get the words out, his pulse throbbing in his ears. ‘I love you. I’m _in_ love with you.’

David’s lips part in quiet, uncomprehending shock, forehead furrowed in confusion and disbelief. ‘What?’ he breathes, as if worried that speaking will distort something in the air, as if the spell will be broken and he’ll wake up to find himself back home in Sheffield, all ready to head off for his first term at Oxford, and Don can’t say for sure that that’s not the case. He fumbles.

‘Look,’ he starts, ‘I don’t… I don’t _expect_ you to reciprocate. And I know that it’s…’

‘Are you sure?’ David asks so quietly, his voice so tiny and child-like with hope, that it twists like a hand grasping his insides.

‘Yes.’

‘Because I’m done falling for straight guys.’

Don huffs out a soft laugh. ‘I know.’

‘I won’t let you fuck me around,’ David warns, his voice cracking a little.

‘I know.’

David takes a step forward, Don rooted to the spot, and stares at him with a shock of indeterminable emotions glistening in his eyes.

‘So, what happens now?’ he asks softly.

‘I should think that’s rather up to you,’ Don replies, and David frowns in confusion.

‘To me?’

Don looks into his face, desperate, laid bare, and fails entirely to keep his voice from shaking.

‘I love you, David. I want you. And… I suppose I’m asking if you want me, too.’

There’s a moment, a breath, like a pause in a musical score, as a soft smile graces David’s lips and he steps forward with shining eyes and broken breaths, and he takes Don’s face in his hands and kisses him.

It’s short but sweet, not nearly enough, and yet Don’s eyes remain closed in overwhelmed shock for several seconds after David has pulled away. When he opens them, David’s eyes are wet and he’s smiling at him with so much love that it’s dizzying, dazzling, and Don feels a little weak at the knees.

‘You daft sod,’ David murmurs. ‘How could I ever say no to you?’

The second kiss is longer. David tastes warm and sweet, with slightly chapped lips that press softly against his own, and the sensation makes Don’s stomach do backflips. It’s a little clumsy, when Don places his hands on David’s hips and pulls him closer, with the combination of a lack of practice and a new mouth, but it’s perfect all the same. It feels like the dappled autumn sunlight through the window, and warm, lazy summer afternoons lying on the grass, like the rush of wind in their hair as they cycle down Hector’s Hill. It feels like the hammering, fluttering of nerves before the first note, his fingers on the cold piano keys, and, when they fall into bed, it feels like the most natural thing in the world, like music in a melody, like their voices singing together. It feels like David. It feels like coming home.

*

A week later, when Sunday rolls around, they wrap up in hats and scarves, and wander to Hackney Downs. David takes seven pictures of the squirrels, or what he hopes are squirrels and not patches of empty grass from which they’ve already fled, and will only find out whether they are or not several weeks later when they’ve been developed. He takes a couple of scenic photos of the crisp autumn leaves fluttering against hazy sky, and one of a startled-looking Don, red-nosed and cold-flushed and caught unaware, before he has the chance to groan and hide his face. They search for somewhere that will serve them coffee, and talk about how they’ll go cycling in the summer. When David’s hands get cold, Don lends him his knitted, grey gloves, and David complains about them being too small on account of Don’s skinny pianist’s fingers. He holds his hand all the same.


End file.
